


Knickers

by SamtheFan99



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF, Yungblud (Musician), dominic harrison
Genre: Bhc, British, Concert, Cute, Dom - Freeform, Dominic Harrison - Freeform, Drinking, Emo, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fan - Freeform, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy, Friends to Lovers, Harrison - Freeform, Machine Gun Kelly - Freeform, Marley - Freeform, Music, Musicians, NSFW, Punk, Romance, Slow Burn, Tour Bus, Underwear, Warped Tour, artist and fan, black hearts club, celebrity, hook up culture, mgk - Freeform, rock n roll, screamo - Freeform, youngblood - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 35,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamtheFan99/pseuds/SamtheFan99
Summary: For the final year of Warped Tour, Marley is dared to steal an artist’s underwear off their tour bus.She hadn’t been betting on getting caught.Thankfully, the elusive Yungblud is pretty nice about it.
Relationships: Dominic Harrison | Yungblud/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	1. Underwear, Bright Pink

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story, I altered the performance order and layout of the venue, though for the most part it is accurate to my experience at Warped Tour 2019. 
> 
> Please comment whatever thoughts you have. Give me something to live for!
> 
> Also if you run or have connections with any YB/BHC fan account, and you like the story, send them here to read!
> 
> Enjoy!

It's been several years since I had a very important epiphany: I am alarmingly stupid.  
Despite such knowledge it is evident that I do nothing to combat the urges this stupidity inflicts on my daily life.  
Maya and I had driven up together and spent a few nights in San Francisco in the sketchiest motel imaginable. We got drunk three nights in a row and went streaking through the city, coasting along on electric scooters and crashing into whatever our hearts desired.  
Upon the arrival of the weekend we found a Marriott down the street from the venue. The nightly rates were obscene, considering it was the final year of Warped Tour and everyone had flooded into Mountain View to bid their favorite festival goodbye.  
So, for the hell of it, Maya and I splurged on a sweet loft with a full kitchen and spent Friday night cooking gross franken-meals and watching bad reality TV, propped on our laps a bowl of stir fried ramen noodles with a delightful Dorito garnish and ugly little bits of torn up beef jerky.  
This morning we had lined up outside the venue with half a hangover and a deep rooted sense of nostalgia that neither of us wanted to reveal. Just the hangover, of course. Not some gnawing sadness that our final moments at Warped were about to begin.  
After we entered we dawdled a bit, cruising through merch tents mewling over cutesy things. Maya falls in love with every merch girl she sees, and flirts hopelessly with them whenever they let her. Naturally, I'm her wingman, though sometimes people take me as her girlfriend.  
Unfortunately for us both, however, I'm straight, which Maya loudly regards as a bad lifestyle choice on my part. Today it was my heterosexuality that got me in trouble.  
Sleeping with Sirens went on, and I hung around after an Andy Biersack meet and greet to watch. A boy had been violently ejected from the mosh pit and slammed into me, taking us both down, and once the surrounding crowd yanked us to our feet I realized that, despite his split lip, he was fine as hell.  
After the Sleeping with Sirens set had ended he chased me away from the stage, catching up to Maya and I with a smug confidence and a saucy introduction. Jacob, his name was, and that I could call him Jake if I wanted to, but only if I really wanted to.  
Only, he had said with a wink, if you think Jake's hotter than Jacob.  
I couldn't help the following eye roll.  
Then stumbling up behind him came a girl, tall and tan, clad in fishnets and a studded denim jacket. Maya's jaw practically hit the floor.  
"Where are you going?" she had asked Jacob.  
"Wherever they're going," he replied with a cheesy grin. "I never got your name."  
"I'm Marley," I told him. "This is Maya."  
"I'm Maya," Maya echoed, reaching out to shake hands with the newcomer.  
"Jay," she tells us. "Jacob's my twin."  
"No, you're my twin. I'm older."  
They were charming. So charming, in fact, that we let them buy us French fries and a beer and ask about our plans later, and where we're from. After some talking, Jacob pulled a twenty from his pocket and asked if I was into bad ideas.  
And then came my case of the stupids. I told him, of course I am. What am I, a nun?  
It didn't occur to me that he might try to pay me off to hook up with him later, but even if that was his intention, I wouldn't have minded. I planned to sleep with him for free.  
Then, out came his lighter and a coy smile, followed by the dumbest dare I've ever heard.  
Now, I'm faced with two things. A fence, and the sternest pep talk from Maya that I've ever gotten.  
"Look," she tells me. "This is the hottest girl I've seen all week. And honestly, the boy isn't so bad either."  
"I know," I dismiss her.  
"Clearly they're into dumb shit," she continues, gripping my shoulders and nodding toward a large hole in the chain link fence, covered with a tarp tied down by some cable ties. "Let's just do it."  
I roll my eyes at her conviction, so easily undone by every punk girl she sees. Jay and Jacob wait for our meeting to be over, swirling the rest of their beer idly. We approach them once more to accept their stupid challenge, and when we do he hands me his worn Bic lighter, faded and scratched.  
As the twins watch for security, Maya and I approach the tarp and, one by one, melt the cable ties and rip them free. Then, once our opening is just big enough, we slip through the fence and into the back parking lot, lined with tour busses.  
Maya and I are automatically stunned into silence, completely starstruck just at the sight of the busses. Thankfully we are well concealed, and peek around the corners of the vehicle in search of security. Then, we make our way bus to bus, trying to remember the name of the artist Jacob had mentioned. Then, regrettably, I recall that he had mentioned two, but I can't remember for the life of me which one he hated.  
I stop, ducking behind a bus labeled Yungblud with a paper in the windshield, and pull Maya into a crouch.  
"Do you remember whose bus we need to sneak onto?" I close my eyes, straining to recall the names. "Was it this guy, Yungblud? Or Machine Gun boy?"  
"It's Machine Gun Kelly. Even I know that, you boomer."  
"Alright, whatever. Which one is it?"  
"All I remember is that one of them had beef with Eminem." Maya shrugs. "So, probably a rapper."  
"Machine Gun Kelly sounds like a rocker stage name, right? And Yungblud sounds more hip-hop."  
Maya crosses her arms. "And if you're wrong?"  
"How are they going to know the difference?" I point out, jabbing my thumb back toward the fence. "Plus, I haven't even seen a tour bus for the Kelly guy. It must be this one."  
"Alright, hurry, then." Maya waves me toward the entrance. "I'll keep watch."  
"Start laughing if you hear someone," I tell her, creeping toward the door and yanking it open. "Pretend you're drunk and got lost."  
"Copy that," she says, and with that I disappear into the bus.  
It's musty inside, with a notable plasticky smell alongside hot, cheap leather, almost like an office lobby after the janitor's two week leave of absence. Miraculously there's no one inside, and during my snooping I discover an empty bunk bed with a suitcase haphazardly tossed onto it, open and spilling out its contents. From the pile I select a folded pair of underwear, alarmingly bright pink, and make a dash for the exit.  
My fingers are on the handle when I hear Maya begin to laugh.


	2. Mr. Blud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

I freeze, listening for the sound of confrontation. Maya's giggling crescendos then, cut off by a deep and demanding voice asking her what the hell she's doing back here. I press my ear to the door and listen.  
"I lost my friends," Maya half-whines, sputtering out a raspberry and falling over herself in laughter. "Like, I haven't seen them in hours."  
"Have you been drinking?"  
"Have you been drinking?" Maya mimics him, much like she would after a few shots.  
"Alright," the male voice delegates. "Get her to first aid."  
"First-aid, first-schmaid," Maya says, but she's disregarded. I hear several pairs of shuffling footsteps lead away from the bus.  
As soon as her protests are out of earshot I slip out of the bus and go around the back, away from Maya and her escorts.  
I glance over my shoulder as I run, checking to see if anyone had caught me leaving the bus. A few heads are turned my way, but they're evidently not looking at me.  
I crash into something warm and tumble backwards, splaying out flat on my back under the glaring summer sun. From the corner of my eye I see a young man, clad in a little black dress and bright pink socks, yanked mid-fall back to his feet by a way-too-large security escort.  
The disorientation settles like dust, the scorching heat and excitement throbbing in my face.  
Another young man, this one with facial hair, bends over me, squinting in concern. "Alright?"  
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My head flops to one side, and from across the parking lot I see Maya turned toward the commotion, staring open-mouthed at the scene. She's never been too subtle.  
Then, the worst question I've ever heard.  
"Are those my underpants?"  
I push myself onto my hands and knees, blinking away the white blindness burned into me by the sun. "Absolutely not," I retort. "How dare you accuse me."  
It takes me a few seconds too long to get to my feet, and when I do there are about six pairs of eyes on me. The pink underwear, now unfolded and splayed on the asphalt, reveals itself to be charmingly embroidered with several hearts in black thread.  
"You broke into the bus?" the too-large escort asks.  
"Well," I say, shrinking under the accusatory tone. "It was unlocked."  
"Did you tamper with anything?"  
"Just the underwear," I confess, turning to a puddle under pressure. "It was a stupid bet. Some guy outside wanted me to burn it because he's a diehard Eminem fan."  
"What's that got to do with my underwear?" the little black dress demands, notably British.  
"Well, you have beef with Eminem, right? I guess he hates you."  
The frown breaks off his face then, and a cheery laugh bubbles up out of him. "You've mistaken me for someone else, I think."  
"Regardless," the too-large man says, taking me by the elbow, "we could have you arrested for trespassing, you know that?"  
"That's not necessary," the little black dress says. "You know I would never have that."  
"I know," the escort snaps back, dragging me several steps toward the gate. "At the very least she needs to be removed from the venue."  
The black dress hurries after us. "Okay, that I might agree with if it wasn't the last ever Warped Tour." He half-smiles at me, and I wish I could look less scared and more moody, brooding, fearless, something. "We can just pretend it never happened, can't we?"  
"I'm sorry," I tell him honestly, fighting back my racing heartbeat.  
"See? No harm done."  
The hot hand disappears from my elbow, just as I hear hard, slapping footsteps in my direction. Without breaking stride, Maya snatches up my hand and yanks me away from the crowd, pulling me back toward the hole in the fence.  
"Thank you, Mister Blud!" I call over my shoulder.  
"Anytime!" he calls back, and then we disappear into the crowd.


	3. The Beef and The Underwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The McDonald's across the street from the Marriott is shiny and golden and fried, the most attractive set of adjectives to four tipsy twenty-somethings.  
We jaywalk across the street, pausing in the center to moon opposing traffic. To our dismay the dining area is closed, and none of us is sober enough to get the car for the drive through. We attempt to walk the drive through on foot, but no amount of waving or yelling prompts that magical question, 'May I take your order?'.  
Thankfully the family of four in the car behind us sees our struggle and generously offers to order for us. We just about fall over ourselves in joy, and when we get up to the second window to pay we insist upon paying for the family's food as well.  
The pleasant interaction is enough to send us spiraling into a carefree euphoria, with all the hopefulness and faith of humankind rattling around in our hearts. Burgers in hand, we twist and twirl around the parking lot, high on our own youth and whatever chemicals are in the food. At one point Jay and Maya play crappy half-drunk tag, and Jacob and I simply watch them from the railing. He reaches over to hold my hand, and I let him.  
"I'm sorry I almost got you kicked out earlier."  
"It's fine. I met Yungblud cause of it."  
"Who?"  
"Y'know, the pretty British dude."  
"Prettier than me?" he asks, batting his eyelashes at me, and for the first time I begin to realize that he might be a little more drunk than I'd hoped.  
"I'll never tell," I say, leaning over to swipe a mouthful of his milkshake.  
We turn our attention back to the parking lot to find Maya pinned to the fence, her face all but sucked off. Jacob boos them, throwing a French fry in their direction. The momentum staggers his balance, tossing him backwards off the railing and dragging me down with him.  
This is the third time I've been on my back in one day because of him, though admittedly the circumstances are a little different than I'd hoped.  
"God, boys are so stupid," I groan, whimpering at the throbbing pain pulsing through my head.  
"Sorry," Jacob mutters, exploding into giggles.  
"Hey," a voice calls. "Alright?"  
We look up, toward where Maya and Jay were a moment ago, to find them concealed by a large black SUV. The window is partway down, a head poking out. I recognize the same bearded face that peered over me the last time I fell.  
"Yeah, thanks," I call back. "Aren't you that guy?"  
"Adam," he says.  
"Nice to meet you, Adam."  
"You're underwear girl?"  
"That's me."  
"Dom's got a gift for you."  
With a groan I sit up, grasping for the railing and hiking myself up to my feet. The door opens and Adam meets me halfway to the car, with the little black dress in tow, no longer in his little black dress. Yungblud holds up a pair of underwear, faded gray, wearing the cheesiest smile I've ever seen.  
My face flushes hot at the memory. "I'm really sorry about that. I swear it wasn't personal. It was..."  
I trail off, twisting to point at Jacob who remains on his back, his head propped up on his hand so he can watch our interaction.  
"Hey, mate," Adam says to him. "Alright?"  
Jacob holds a thumbs up, smiling dizzily.  
"Aside from the part where you broke into our bus," Yungblud begins, "I'm all for stupid and reckless behavior. Let's burn some undies."  
I reveal Jacob's beat-up lighter from my front pocket and hold it up. "Any particular reason?"  
"I don't know," he returns with an innocent shrug. "For the hell of it?"  
"Alright," I agree.  
"Does your boyfriend want to bear witness?" Adam asks, nodding at Jacob. Jacob waves him away lazily, happy and drunk on the ground.  
"He's more like my Warped Tour boyfriend," I say, holding a flame underneath the dangling pair of boxers. "I doubt I'll ever see him again come Monday."  
Yungblud drops the burning boxers to the asphalt, grinning widely at whatever symbolism he's found in it. "Being young is quite the adventure."  
"I guess that's why you call yourself Yungblud."  
"Right. But my friends call me Dom."  
"Yeah. Or knobhead, which I think has a nicer ring to it," Adam adds, waving away the rising smoke. The flame eats quickly away at the gray fabric, the smoke going black when the elastic starts to burn.  
“What’s your name?” Dom asks me, biting down on his sleeve and rocking back and forth on his heels. His eyes flick between me and the fire, as if he can’t decide which is more interesting.  
“Marley,” I tell him. “Like the dog.”  
“Oh, fuck that movie. I cried like a baby,” Adam says. “So did Dom.”  
“Oh, we cried for hours,” Dom agrees, squatting over the burning underwear and reaching up, snapping his fingers for the lighter.  
I hand it over curiously, peering over him as he lights the other leg of the boxers.  
"This is nice," I say, coughing somewhat. "Where in England are you from?"  
"Doncaster," Dom tells me. "I just bought a place in LA, though. Finished furnishing last weekend."  
"LA," I repeat. "That's where I'm from. Nice house?"  
"It’s fucking sick," he says. "The rockstar life has its perks."  
"Except for when randos sneak onto your tour bus," I tell him, frowning. "Can I buy you a milkshake or something to apologize for breaking and entering?"  
"It's forgiven and forgotten, man," he says, dismissing me with a funny little gesture and belting out a stout laugh. "No milkshake necessary."  
"I absolutely disagree," I say. "Please, it'll be for my conscience."  
Dom and Adam exchange looks and wide grins.  
"He likes chocolate," Adam says.  
"Chocolate it is," I say, turning on my heel and making my way back toward the second window. Dom trails me unexpectedly, both hands shoved in his pockets and all but disappearing into his hoodie.  
I knock on the window and the lady inside, though visibly tired, opens up and offers a polite smile. I apologize for the inconvenience and ask if I can order something, and though she looks inclined to turn me away she nods. I slap down a five dollar bill and order two chocolate milkshakes. She turns to enter my order, and from the corner of my eye I see Dom slip some money out of his pocket and begin to reach nonchalantly for the window.  
Before he can touch my waiting bill I snatch up his wrist and hold to it tightly. "I don't think so."  
"You're fast," he says, slapping down a ten over my five with his other hand. "But not fast enough."  
The cashier's side eye is formidable, and I'm almost tempted to stop the ruckus and allow him to pay, but my pride won't let me lose. Moments before her hand comes down on the ten I steal it back and shove it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.  
"Not today, asshole, it's my turn to be nice."  
Dom guffaws, doubling over, his laughter so contagious that I join him as if on instinct. From this new angle I see Maya and Jay staring intently at us, drawn by the disruption of the night's silence, and without another beat of hesitation they return to their face-sucking. Neither seem intimidated nor impressed by his celebrity status. Evidently, none of us knew about Yungblud before today.  
"So what was all that about beefing with Eminem?" I ask.  
"Well, Colson's had some drama, I guess," he tells me, smearing his sleeved hand under his chin, scraping at some scattered stubble. "I could ask for a pair of his underwear, if you really wanted."  
I scoff at the offer. "You must think I'm a full blown creep."  
"Maybe I do," he agrees with an easy shrug and a twisted little grin. "Truth he told, I've never been on the receiving end of a panty raid. Maybe this is just karma for my behavior in year 8.”  
"God, I'm so sorry," I groan, cupping my hands over my eyes. "I feel like such an ass."  
"Well, a man's tour bus is a very intimate thing," he tells me, waggling a finger at me.  
"But underwear isn't?"  
The cashier calls to us, handing out two milkshakes and bidding us a short goodnight. We turn, cups in hand, and amble back toward the SUV. Adam is inside, door open, legs dangling, with a ridiculously oversized hamburger in hand.  
Without any greeting I hand him the milkshake.  
"For me?" he asks, through a mouthful.  
"For you," I say. "Must've also been your tour bus I broke into."  
"Holy fuck, what happened to your elbow?" Dom interjects, slapping his free hand over his mouth in a dramatic display of shock.  
"Hm?" I ask, twisting my arm. Just below my bicep is a large wound, lined with dirt and dried blood. "Oh. I didn't even know."  
"Did it happen when you fell?" he asks.  
"Probably. But I've fallen multiple times since this morning."  
"Oh," Dom whimpers, pouting. "I feel responsible."  
"What, why? I crashed into you," I tell him, brushing the dirt away. "This would be, as usual, my own stupid fault."  
"Don't say that," he says. "No, it looks painful. Adam, do we have that first aid kit?"  
"It's never more than ten feet from you, dear," Adam replies sweetly. "You're you, after all."  
"Right," Dom says, shoving his milkshake toward Adam, who takes it and rests it on the floor of the SUV. Then, he pops open the trunk and digs through the mess in the back. He reveals from the chaos a small white box, presenting it on his palm like an award, and lifts my arm into the dim lighting of the McDonald's for a better look.  
"Please, don't play nurse. That's so sweet and tender I might just barf."  
"I am very sweet," Dom tells me, squatting to rest the box on his lap as he prepares an alcohol wipe and a bandage. “Barf if you gotta.”  
I grit my teeth at the medicinal sting of alcohol on open skin.  
"Haven't you done me enough favors today?" I ask, tight lipped and tense. "No police report, no forced removal, and now medical care and TLC?”  
"Maybe I'm not even done yet," he says, pressing the bandage into my arm and sticking it down with gentle thumbs. "D'you feel like attending my afterparty-slash-open house? Considering you're from LA, and all."  
"Good one," I tell him.  
"No, seriously," Adam chimes in, receiving the first aid kit when Dom hands it over. “Our guest list is proper sad.”  
“How many people?” I ask.  
“Three hundred or so.”  
“Three hundred?”  
“I’m a social fucking butterfly,” Dom pouts, gesturing for Adam to hand back his milkshake and killing the seconds between with a bouncy two-step. “It should be far more people.”  
“Well, maybe I don’t want to go knowing you’d invite me,” I say, stealing a glance at Jacob, now flopped over on his left side. “Clearly your judgment is cloudy if you’d have me as your houseguest, someone who literally raided your suitcase.”  
“Yes, and you haven’t let me forget it, either,” Dom says, with an unabashed smile and a barely detectable eye roll. “Bring as many guests as you like, as long as they’re wild.”  
“I just might do that,” I say. “But I—”  
A disturbing retching from behind cuts me off. Dom and Adam stretch to see, and to my horror Jacob is propped up haphazardly on one elbow and vomiting onto the concrete below him.  
“Fuck me,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “I wanted to fuck him, not babysit him.”  
“Can’t hold his liquor?” Dom asks, flopping backwards against the SUV and sipping casually at his milkshake drumming his fingers along the sides.  
“Evidently not,” I say, cupping one hand around my mouth, calling across the parking lot. “Jay, your brother’s puking.”  
A moment of silence hangs in the air before a set of slapping footprints start toward us, accompanied by a long string of mumbled curse words. Jay appears at the front of the SUV, her once neatly braided hair pulled into a mess by Maya’s notorious grabby hands.  
“Where is he?” she asks me.  
I point. She races toward him and pulls him partway up, swearing like a sailor, her insults articulating his drunken complaints. Maya appears a moment later, both dazed and irritated, reclasping her bra beneath her shirt.  
“What the fuck, Marley?”  
“What?”  
“You couldn’t have watched him for five more minutes?”  
“You know I draw the line at vomit.”  
“You’re just mad because I was getting laid and you weren’t.”  
“Hey!” I snap at her, nodding toward Adam and Dom, concealed behind the open door of the SUV. “Be decent, would you?”  
Dom pokes his head out and waves, full cheesing.  
“Right, sorry,” she says, pressing her palm against her temple, steadying herself. “I guess I’m a little drunk. I’m Maya. And you’re those guys. With the beef and the underwear.”  
“I guess that’s our legacy now, Dom.” Adam nudges him, crumpling his hamburger wrapper and tossing it into the backseat of the SUV.  
“My lifelong dream.”  
Maya giggles girlishly, revealing her tipsiness. I check my phone for the time, to see if it’s reasonably late enough to drag the two of us back to our hotel.  
“That reminds me,” Dom says, snapping his fingers and reaching toward me, grabbing at my phone. He still wears his signature smile. “Let me drop my info.”  
“Your info?” Maya gapes. “You’re a goddamn wizard, Marley. Ain’t he, like, famous?”  
“He’s just being nice,” I whisper to her, willing her to shut her drunk mouth.  
“No, I’m serious,” Dom asserts, tapping away at my screen, brushing away stray hair that falls into his face from beneath his hood. “I want you to come.”  
Maya gasps, cupping her hands over her mouth and giggling uncontrollably into her palms. “Oh my god, Marley, he wants you to come.”  
Dom smirks, politely ignoring her for my sake.  
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.  
“Bring her, she’s a laugh,” he whispers back, winking, letting a charming chuckle slip. He turns, shooing Adam into the car and settling in next to him. “Thanks a ton for the milkshake.”  
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask him earnestly.  
“I’ll be around,” he says. “I might just text you.”  
“I might just answer.”  
Maya explodes into giggles all over again. “Oh my god.”  
Dom shuts the door, poking his head out of the opened window as the car starts to roll away.  
“When’s the party?” I call to him.  
“A week from tonight,” he calls back. “And you best believe I’ll have all my underwear locked up tight.”  
That comment breaks her. Maya topples over in laughter, collapsing to her knees in the vast drunken hilarity of it all. Dom’s bright laugh emanates from the moving car as he watches me drag Maya back to her feet.  
“Goodnight,” I yell to him.  
“Goodnight,” he yells back, and then the SUV disappears into the night.


	4. Trusty Cockblock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The evening closes with The Offspring, and Maya holds my hand as I cry. As many sad stories as I have, I’ve always had a tendency to listen to The Offspring to counteract the soul-sucking misery, and now here they are, providing the soundtrack for our final moments at Warped Tour.  
I don’t think I could ever be the type to pretend I’m no longer Emo. It feels impossible to shake, the inclination to wear too much eyeliner and whine over existentialist poetry. Maybe it’s rooted. Maybe I should be grateful.  
At the end of the set, as the crowd trickles away, Maya and I stay, letting it flow around us and watching the diehard emos pass us by. Sometimes I say goodbye to one of them, a stranger, for no reason at all, and they always say it back. Maya hugs me and we sway, and we don’t judge each other for our silly sentimentality.  
After twenty minutes the crowd is gone, out in the world once again, never to be gathered in such a concentration again. I feel like I’ve lost a member of my family, and as we sit in the empty venue I can’t help but feel like I’m in mourning.  
Security notices me from the fence and makes his way over to kick us out. Before he can get to us we turn to leave, dragging our heels toward the main entrance, stealing final glances at all the merch tents, now mostly taken down. My backpack is regretfully heavy with unnecessary purchases from these tents.  
On our way out we pass what I remember to be the Yungblud tent, where a huge, hopeful line had snaked around every surrounding structure earlier in the day. It had been almost impossible to penetrate this line, and admittedly I had to bite my tongue to resist bragging about my late night interaction with Dom in a McDonald’s parking lot.  
In the darkness, two figures are packing away merchandise, far behind everyone else. One of the figures marches off into the darkness, carrying a box, leaving one person behind. A crappy hanging light dangles from the tent’s frame, not illuminating much but providing just enough light for me to distinguish pink socks peeking out from a pair of cropped slacks.  
He turns my direction and instantly recognizes me, standing under the stadium light and gazing mindlessly at him. He sets his box down and waves wildly at me, goofy in an irresistible sort of way.  
“Hey, Marley!” he says brightly. “Hey Maya!”   
I’m surprised he remembers our names. Maya jabs an elbow into my ribs, giving me no time to respond before she drags me off toward Dom’s tent. On the way there I desperately try to rub the lingering tears from my eyes.  
When we arrive Dom is cheerier than ever, immediately beginning to rattle off about The Offspring’s set, but he stops mid sentence when he notices my bloodshot eyes.  
“Oh, no, have you been crying?”  
“No,” I retort, lowering my gaze in shame.  
“She’s sentimental,” Maya says.  
“Me too, man,” Dom agrees, nodding in solidarity, sharing a moment of solemn quiet with me. “You need a hug? People say my hugs can heal broken hearts.”  
“I believe you,” I say, chancing an insecure glance up at him.  
His smile is unwavering, and so, so warm. How can I, in my weepy nostalgia, say no?  
So, we hug, and when his arms close around me it’s a feeling akin to stepping into a warm shower, maybe flopping onto a bed of fresh sheets. His sweater smells like some laundry detergent I might recognize from childhood, and I suppose I lose myself too deeply in the relief of it that I mistakenly nose his hood down and off. It occurs to me a second too late that this might be an overstep on my part, but his arms only tighten, pressing my forehead into the warmth of his neck.  
My god, he smells fantastic. What is that smell? Soap, or maybe a light cologne, and the lingering detergent, and the slightest presence of sweat, masculine and inoffensive in essence. It takes a hearty dose of willpower to regulate my own breathing so I don’t come off like a drug-sniffing dog at Woodstock.  
Several more moments pass before I realize that he won’t be the one to let me go. So, out of a polite consideration, I retreat from his hug and fiercely reject the empty feeling I’m left with.  
“Thanks,” I say.  
“I’m a professional hugger,” he tells me, grinning, turning to throw a few more knickknacks into the open box on the table beside him.  
“Let me help you,” I suggest, hurrying to the other side to take the last remaining box of merch.  
“That’s sweet,” Dom says, somehow widening his smile even further. “The van’s waiting in the lot.”  
Maya trails Dom and I across the venue, hardcore eavesdropping the entire time, her eyebrows waggling obnoxiously whenever either of us say anything remotely suggestive. As we load the boxes, a particularly tall and thin man nods at the three of us in his passing. Dom turns, shoving both hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, his vibrant eyes peeking out from behind a messy mop of dark hair.  
“Seems like I owe you both a drink,” he says, swinging his elbows back and forth to stretch out his back, not unlike some obscure rendition of the chicken dance. “Plus you’d get a proper tour of the bus. How about it?”  
Maya spins me around by the shoulder, blocking Dom out of our conversation. I know what’s coming.  
“Actually, I think Jay wants to grab dinner,” she says, holding a subtle thumbs up below her waistline. “She might want you there. Want me to call?”  
I shake my head at her, mirroring her thumbs up to indicate my truthfulness, and that I don’t feel threatened. “Nah, you go.”  
Had I given her a thumbs down, she would have played the role of the trusty cockblock, obnoxiously insisting that I come with her to dinner to get me out of whatever obligation that was just placed on me.  
“Alright,” she says, spinning me back toward Dom and giving me a little shove forward. “Have fun, you crazy kids.”  
Then, Maya turns and makes for the exit, leaving me and Dom alone.


	5. Loose-Lipped Tipsiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

Now that we’ve broken the touch barrier, there are less rules to be considered. So, for no real reason at all, we link arms and start back toward the bus, rambling to each other about fond memories of Warped Tour.  
He interrupts himself mid-sentence to ask me, “Can we skip? Let’s skip.”  
So we skip, giggling like children, until Dom starts to surpass me. Naturally, I can’t let him beat me, so I accelerate to surpass him. After a few repetitions of this we wind up in a full blown sprint, racing and cursing at each other, our voices wicked away by the summer wind. When we reach the bus both of us double over, breathless but satisfied.  
“I won,” he pants.  
“Wrong.”  
“What d’you mean, wrong?”  
“My grandma runs faster than you.”  
His jaw drops to hide his amusement. “Fuck off!”  
“You fuck off. I win.”  
“Alright, fine. Whatever makes you feel better.” He yanks his hood down, then reaches behind him to yank his sweater off, over his head. As a result, his hair is an even bigger disaster than before. “Anyway, this is my tour bus, I call her Daisy. You two are already acquainted.”  
“Sorry for trespassing, Daisy,” I say to the bus.  
“No, no, no.” Dom ties his sweater around his waist and claps a hand over one of the headlights. “Daisy only speaks French.”  
“Oh,” I say. “Je suis desolée pour…fuck, how do you say trespassing?”  
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” he says, linking arms with me once more and guiding me toward the door.  
“I don’t.”  
“Yeah, I was teasing.”  
He opens the door for me, gesturing me in with a grandiose bow and a wave of the hand. I ascend the stairs into the darkened bus, feeling my way partway down the aisle. It smells similar to how I remember it, but there is a notable lack of suffocating sunlight scorching the still air inside.  
“Where’s Adam?”  
“Partying with Tom,” Dom’s voice emanates through the darkness. A few lights come on, but their plastic covers are fogged and scratched in such a way that the atmosphere glows a dim, cloudy yellow. “I’ll let him know that you missed him, though.”  
“He’s an enigma,” I say, dropping my backpack onto the nearby counter. “Lately it seems like he’s always there to witness me falling on my ass.”  
“Right,” Dom says, stooping to a cabinet and revealing a bottle of vodka and a box of juice pouches. He begins to mix them haphazardly between two mugs. “And then he says, ‘Alright?’ all cute-like.”  
“How embarrassing,” I lament, scanning the tour bus for all the details I missed yesterday. There’s a charming little drawing taped to the wall opposite the cabinets that looks as though it was made by a child. Lined up in the corner of the leather-lined seating is an array of pink stuffed animals. A string of taco shaped lights hangs overhead.  
“What about your Warped Tour boyfriend?” Dom asks, handing me one of the ceramic mugs, this one adorned with a cartoon unicorn. He taps his own mug to mine and sips his drink. “He recover alright?”  
“I don’t know,” I say, sniffing the contents of my cup. “I never actually got his phone number. I would also like to make it known that he was the fucker that dared me to steal some underwear.”  
Dom nods knowingly, barely resisting a smile. “You nicked my knickers.”  
I plop down on the long line of cushions against the wall of the tour bus, disturbing the neat line of pink plush toys at the other end. He sits beside me, stretching out, manspreading in every direction possible.  
“Tell me,” I say. “Is everything you own pink?”  
“Well, everything my fans send me is pink.”  
My heart drops. “A fan sent you underwear?”  
“Yup. Handmade.”  
“And I stole that underwear?” I clap my hand to my forehead. “God, I am such an ass.”  
This earns me Dom’s signature laugh. I swallow a few mouthfuls of the alcoholic concoction he made in an attempt to drown my own shame.  
“I don’t think it will ever not be funny,” he says, shoving one of the dangling sleeves of his sweatshirt between his teeth, gnawing furiously on the corner and soaking the fabric with spit. “Sorry, am I sitting too close?”  
“You’re fine,” I say.  
I’m lying.  
He’s more than fine.  
As strange as it sounds in my own head, I want to spend another second just smelling him. In actuality, his scent never left my subconscious, and now, with the introduction of alcohol, albeit minute, the primordial craving is front and center. I try to remember whatever it is I learned about pheromones and biology and all that crap, but my logic is only functioning at half capacity with him at such a distance.  
Maybe he’s looking to hook up. Maybe I’m getting lucky tonight. Maybe I should flirt. Maybe I should ask.  
“What’s England like?” I ask.  
Nice flirtation, dork.  
“Fucking rainy, man,” he says, spitting out his sleeve to sip some more from his mug. “The people can be a bit stuffy there, too.”  
“Funny how such a place produced you.”  
“You have no idea,” he says, with a subtle shake of his head. “I just fucking love makeup and dresses, man.”  
“Me, too,” I say. “On you.”  
He shoots me a coy sidelong glance. “Don’t be modest. They look fabulous on everyone.”  
“Not me.”  
“Wrong.”  
I gape. “Excuse me?”  
He gasps. “You should let me do your makeup.” He turns slightly toward me, grinning ear to ear. “The Yungblud way.”  
“My face isn’t right for makeup,” I dismiss him, swallowing back more alcohol.  
“Every face is right for makeup. C’mon, please? It would be fun.”  
In this light his eyes are a shocking green, like seawater in sunlight. Have I never taken a good look at him before this moment? Never noticed the rosy cheeks, the sculpted bone structure, the upturned nose?  
Suddenly I’m nervous in a way no boy has ever made me before.  
“Alright,” I tell him, flicking back my hair. “Make me beautiful.”  
He shoves his mug into my hand and stands, all but sprinting to the back of the bus. “Your mother already did that for me. I’m going to make you a hot mess.”  
When he returns he’s carrying a little pink pouch, bedazzled with rhinestones. He sits unceremoniously, sloshing the drinks in my hands somewhat, but he doesn’t notice.  
“Okay, eyeliner first,” he says, revealing a little black stick from the bag. He uncaps it and smudges an ungraceful ring all around my eyes, rejecting all conventionality by paying no attention to detail. Then comes a thick, sticky layer of glittery purple gloss, both above and below my eye.  
With each little detail he adds he barks out a sudden yelp of satisfaction, tossing his head back and gushing over his work. The final detail is the lipstick, pausing to smear the top layer onto the back of his hand before using it on me. It’s a deep burgundy color, almost black in this light, and he forgoes all steadiness in favor of two cursory swipes over my mouth.  
“Done,” he says, just about flinging the products back into the pouch. “Looks like you might have gotten into a fight or summat. That’s fucking cool, man.”  
“What was the fight about?”  
He leans in, gazing deeply into my eyes and chewing his lower lip, as if reading the back of my skull through my pupils. Then, when the realization hits, his lip pulls free and he’s smiling his iconic smile again. “Someone talked shit, and you decked ‘em, o’course.”  
I squint at him. “Are you already drunk?”  
“No. D’you want me to be?”  
“I’ll race you to the bottom,” I say, holding up both mugs.  
He snatches his back from me. “You’re on.”  
The mug is halfway to my mouth when he catches my wrist in his hand.  
“Wait. You’re not driving or nothing?”  
“Nah,” I tell him. “Stop stalling.”  
“You’ve got the addy and allat? So you can call an Uber if you want to leave?”  
“Oh my god, it’s literally walking distance. Now drink.”  
We do, and once again we’re trapped in another pointless race with no clear winner. This time, however, the lingering burn of the vodka keeps us from arguing about it.  
“That was stupid,” I say. “We should have played a drinking game.”  
“Now there’s something new,” he commends, wagging a finger at me. “Teach me an American drinking game.”  
“Give me a minute to think about it,” I tell him, thrusting my empty mug into his hand. “Make me another.”  
“Yes, ma’am,” he says obediently, wearing the most seductive smirk I’ve probably ever seen. “I think I like you bossing me around.”  
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but my hips clench at his tone. He pays no mind to my dazed lack of response and jumps to his feet, clutching both mug handles in one hand and hiking up his slacks with the other. I watch him remake the drinks, and halfway through the process he slams the vodka bottle down on the counter and twirls several times in place before continuing.  
He catches me in my captivation and lets his laughter flow. “Sorry, I’m a bit stupid.”  
“Same here,” I say.  
He stoops over the mugs, eying their contents, and begins to pour the drinks between the receptacles like a child in the midst of a makebelieve chemistry experiment. “Maybe that’s why we get on.”  
“Maybe,“ I agree. “People tend to find me a bit crude.”  
“Same for me, man, but also, like, bratty and obnoxious and loud. My head’s like, constantly in sixth gear.”  
“Is it any fun?”  
“Of course!” he says, spinning around on his heels like Michael Jackson, sashaying back toward the sofa. “Once I figured out how to stop hating myself.”  
“What’s to hate?” I ask, receiving the drink and holding it out for our enthusiastic cheers.  
He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re flattering me.”  
“I have good reason,” I say. “Most guys who are nice to me right off the bat are just looking to fuck.”  
I kick myself for my loose-lipped tipsiness. What if that was the reason Dom brought me here to begin with? And why, pray tell, did I phrase it as though it were a bad thing?  
“That’s fucked, man,” he says seamlessly, not missing a beat. “I’m sorry. Guys can be shit sometimes.”  
“Right,” I conclude skeptically, twirling the mug insecurely in my hands.  
“Anyway,” he says, lifting his cup again and beaming unabashedly at me. “To Warped Tour.”  
“To Warped Tour,” I echo, and we drink.


	6. Warped Tour Hookup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

After our second mug, the drinking game seems superfluous, but I suggest ‘Never Have I Ever’ for the purpose of being nosy.  
Dom is half a step past tipsy, and he is all for the idea. If it weren’t for the alcohol, the game might be more decent, but neither of us seem to mind.  
“Never have I ever cheated on my partner,” he says.  
“Does that include my elementary school boyfriend?”  
He gasps. “You cheated on your primary school boyfriend?”  
“No, no, repeat after me. El-e-ment-ary.”  
He tilts his chin toward me, smirking. “Pri-mar-y.”  
“Wrong.”  
“What d’you mean wrong?” he asks, feigning offense but failing miserably. “I’m British!”  
“Oh, you’re right. Never have I ever been British.”  
“Damn you!” he says, and takes a long swig. “If you want to play dirty we can play dirty. Never have I ever been American. Never have I ever been named Marley. Never have I ever been a girl.” He stops. “Maybe disregard that last one.”  
“Oh, fuck, did I ruin my makeup?” I ask, sitting up and prodding at my lipstick.  
“No, you made it more authentic,” he says, turning in his seat and adjusting himself partway into my lap. “Okay. Never have I ever stolen something worth more than a hundred pounds.”  
I drink. His jaw pops open in surprise.  
“You delinquent. What was it?”  
“A jacket,” I say. “Leather. It was for my boyfriend at the time.”  
“Lucky bastard,” he says, shuffling, pressing his shoulders into my thigh as he reclines properly into my lap. “What happened with him?”  
“Well,” I draw a breath, “turns out I was the side piece.”  
“Fuck, man, I’m sorry. That sucks. You should have at least been the main piece.” He slaps his hand over his mouth, wide-eyed at his own comment. “Jesus, I don’t know why I said that. Sorry.”  
“No, no, it was a compliment,” I say, a funny warmth spreading through my chest, my fingers creeping up to tug at the ends of his hair. “You’re beautiful, you know.”  
He crinkles his nose. “I always thought I was funny looking.”  
“Oh, you are. That’s your best feature.”  
“Fuck, man,” he says, rolling his shoulders back, resting his mug on his chest. “I love when people touch my hair.”  
“Thank god, I’ve been wanting to touch it.”  
“Go for it. I’m such a puppy dog, man, I love pets. And hugs. And I lick people sometimes.”  
Then, with no warning, he swipes his tongue up my arm and beams at me proudly. Without much thought in return, I snatch up his wrist and lick the back of his hand.  
“Equality,” he says, with a nod of confirmation. “Okay. Never have I ever fucked someone I didn’t love.”  
I drink. He smirks.  
“Considering I love everyone,” he adds.  
“Very funny,” I say, pinching his nose and jostling his head side to side. Some part of me figures that now is the time to make a move. “Never have I ever kissed a rockstar.”  
He drinks, green eyes watching me deviously. Then, after a moment of consideration, he turns his head and taps his cheek with the pad of his index finger, puckering girlishly. “Go on, then, tonight’s about experiences.”  
I wonder if he can hear my heart racing at this proximity. He probably can. God, why am I so nervous?  
Leaning over, I brush my lips against his cheekbone, and there’s that smell again. With him I don’t know how long I’m ever allowed to linger, or where he draws his boundaries. Politeness is at the forefront of my mind, but so are these goddamned urges.  
“You smell nice,” I comment absently, probably too close to his ear.  
“Aftershave,” he tells me, craning his neck and quirking his electric smile.  
I lean down again, drawn by habit to just get the first kiss out of the way so the sex can follow. My body seems to betray me, though, in the gentle cupping of his jaw, in the exposure of maybe a sliver of unexpected intimacy.  
My lips brush his smile, and he draws me in with the slightest graze of my chin, but the contact sends startled shivers down my spine. Jesus, what am I, a virgin? A twelve year old at a school dance, chest in knots from the prospect of their first kiss?  
“I can’t,” I gasp out, shattering the fragile moment. “I’m sorry, I want to see you again. I really want to see you again.”  
“Sorry?” he says, sitting up. He shuffles in place, now at a safe distance where his intoxicating smell can’t cloud my judgment.  
“I don’t just want to hook up, Dom,” I say. “I know it’s totally my style, but I want to continue to know you. Text you memes and stuff, and not have my name in your phone as your Warped Tour hookup. You know, like real friends.”  
There’s no immediate answer as Dom listens, sitting humbly and considerately. Sitting still, for the first time. Unfortunately, the silence drives me to continue rambling.  
“Maybe I’m asking too much. You know, suddenly demanding access to your attention for longer than you expected. Usually we just fuck and then we’re rid of each other. You know, permanently, and I’m always fine with that. I’ve never not been fine with that. But—”  
“Marley,” he says softly, interrupting me with a delicate hand on my knee. “I didn’t bring you here to hook up with you. To be honest, it never even crossed my mind.”  
“Bullshit,” I say.  
“No, really,” he confirms, setting his mug on the floor of the tour bus. “In hindsight, I get why you don’t believe me. The alcohol, the solitude, the touching. I thought I was just being friendly.”  
“Why’d you let me kiss you then?”  
He shrugs, as innocently as I’ve ever seen him. “I don’t know, you’re nice. I like you. It didn’t feel like a violation.”  
I press my palm into my temple, trying to massage away my anxiety headache. “Jesus, I’m such an ass.”  
“No, it’s my fault,” he says, coasting his hand through his hair, his lips puckering pensively. “It didn’t even occur to me the message I was sending.”  
His tone rings with an undeniable authenticity. In this moment, despite the mess we’ve made, I don’t feel like he could ever lie to me. Even if everything he’s said so far is only damage control, the understandable backpedaling after a rejection like mine, my heart wants to believe him.  
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “God, sometimes I’m just so fucking—”  
“No, no, it’s alright,” he assures me, his confident smile returning in an instant. “It’s on me, I apologize. No, of course we can be friends. That was my goal from the beginning.”  
“That should make the headlines,” I say. “Local rockstar takes random concert-goer to tour bus and gets her drunk, wants to be just friends.”  
“What can I say?” he says, lifting the discarded mug into his hands again and lifting it to cheers once more. “I guess I’m just bonkers.”  
“Here’s to being bonkers,” I say.  
We drink.


	7. A Flounce A Bounce A Twirl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

It’s late in the morning when we finally wake, both regrettably hungover. Last night’s events trickle pleasantly through my mind, hiccuping slightly over our brief stumble of awkwardness and a noncommittal kiss. I don’t remember much after it, but the tour bus is in absolute shambles, and Dom’s shirt is ripped open in front. He’s slouched sideways, his cheek pressing against the counter, an overturned and empty bottle of vodka only inches away. This time I am in his lap, my arms wrapped around his knee, his hand partway in my hair.  
There’s a ringing in my ears that mutes the muffled voices just outside. Even if I could make them out, I’m too hungover to recognize them. The door pops open, flooding the interior with light, almost bright enough to blind me, and with it comes an agonizing pulse of pressure through my skull.  
Before I can recover fully two figures appear before us, spinning slowly, surveying our disastrous surroundings in silence.  
Then, a booming voice.  
“The fuck happpened, Dom?”  
Both of us startle into wakefulness. My body heaves, flattening me onto my back, and when the blur in my vision clears I recognize Adam’s face above me, softened by the sunlight in tandem with my headache.  
“Alright?” he asks me.  
“No,” I tell him.  
“Fuck, what happened to this place?” Dom groans, adjusting in his seat, bobbing my head on his lap, rattling my brain around in my skull.  
“We leave you alone for one night and you wreck our bus?”  
“It’s not wrecked,” I interject, sitting up slowly, painfully. “It’s redecorated.”  
Dom clears his throat, tugging his shirt halfheartedly closed over his chest. In doing this reveals a dribble of dried blood on the white fabric.  
“Who bled?” Adam asks.  
I hold my elbow into the light, finding the bandaid unsoiled and still securely in place. “Not me.”  
Dom tilts his head to one side, his hands coming down on my cheeks as he turns my face every which way. Finally, he looks directly up into my nostrils and curses.  
“Your nose,” he says, prodding at it. “Dehydration, maybe?”  
The following pain tells me in no uncertain terms that it certainly is not dehydration.  
“I think I fell or something,” I say. “Feels like I got hit.”  
Adam chuckles easily. “Did you fistfight or summat, Dom?”  
“Maybe,” he says, his brows furrowing. “You alright?”  
My back pocket vibrates before I can answer. My heart drops into my stomach as my neglected responsibility comes flooding in.  
Just as I suspected, it’s Maya, and she’s yelling at me before I can even greet her.  
“Where the everloving fuck are you?” she snaps, her voice exploding from the speaker, loud enough to be heard by the other three in the bus. “You promised me you’d be here by nine.”  
“When did I promise that?”  
“Last night,” she says. “Remember our call?”  
“Not at all,” I say, but I can’t blame Maya for not realizing how hammered I was. I have an uncanny ability to sound sober on the phone.  
“You were drinking with him?” she chastises. “Alone?”  
I send an apologetic glance Dom’s way, to which he shrugs indifferently.  
“Where are you?” she demands.  
“Tour bus.”  
“I’ll be there in five,” she says, and hangs up.  
“I’m in trouble,” I sigh, pushing against Dom’s shoulder to help me to my feet, coming face to face with the other newcomer, one I don’t recognize, as I’m collecting my capsized backpack. “Hi. Marley. Sorry for destroying your bus.”  
“S’alright,” he says with a shrug. “I’m Tom.”  
“Pleasure,” I say, touching his arm on my way past him. “Good to see you, Adam.”  
“Likewise, Marley.”  
Dom scrambles to his feet to walk me out, like I had suspected he would. He follows me down the stairs and out into the open, the flaps of his torn shirt whipping back and forth in the late morning’s wind.  
“Sorry again about last night,” I tell him. “For the things I remember and for the things I don’t.”  
“I don’t regret a thing,” he says, ruffling the knots out of his hair.  
I extend a hand toward him. “Friends?”  
One corner of his mouth turns endearingly upwards, and he joins our hands together and pulls me into another first-rate hug, but this time, with our newly cemented sense of familiarity, he nuzzles his face against my shoulder. He’s right, he’s very much like a puppy, and the easy closeness makes my chest hurt.  
This time it’s me who won’t let go, and I don’t feel like he’ll demand an explanation for it. Maybe for him there’s no space for logic in a hug, and how wonderful that must be.  
Before I know it, Maya pulls up on the opposite side of the fence and blares her horn, agitating our hangovers. He catches my eye on our way apart, holding my gaze for an extra moment. The headache has subdued him slightly, and I can’t help but feel there’s something fundamentally missing in this moment. A flounce. A bounce. A twirl.  
“See you Saturday?” I ask him.  
“Bring all your angst,” he returns, with a wiggled eyebrow.  
I watch him in the side mirror as Maya pulls away, our suitcases half open and thrown carelessly in the backseat. She’s fuming, but thankfully not enough to make her terrible driving worse. She and I are silent until we reach the freeway, though her interrogation doesn’t start until we pass three exits.  
It begins with a suspicious sideways glance and an anticipatory drumming on the wheel. “Did you fuck?”  
“No.”  
“Second base?”  
“No.” “You’re not wearing a bra, Marls.” I cup my chest, and holy hell, where’s my bra? “Shit, I must have left it on the bus,” I mutter, mortified. “No, no second base. I don’t think.” “First base, then?” I chew my lip at the memory of our almost-kiss. “Kind of?”  
“Elaborate.”  
“Felt weird,” I say. “I was scared it would lead to a hookup.”  
“Didn’t you want to hook up?”  
“I thought I did. I was wrong. I wanted to…” I grimace. “I wanted to cuddle, I guess.”  
Maya rolls her eyes. “He’s a stranger, Marls.”  
“He perplexed me,” I say. “It felt like a gamble, you know. Like cashing out for a fuck when I could have a real friend next game.”  
“Whoa,” she says. “What about me?”  
“You’re the main piece, always,” I tell her, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Thanks for picking me up, Maya.”  
“Yeah. You’re buying me breakfast.”


	8. 😊🖤🤪

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The return to my studio apartment is more sobering than I had hoped. Warped Tour is over, really over. What a loss. What misfortune.  
I spend several hours sleeping off my hangover, and to my absolute joy I wake up to a text from Dom. He had audaciously named himself ‘Mr. Blud’ in my phone.  
It’s a photo. Of Dom. Wearing my bra. Posing flamboyantly.  
The fucker.  
I don’t usually question my drunken antics, especially since I’m self aware enough to recognize my own tendency to reject all oppressive clothing and accessories after a few drinks. I’ve lost countless pairs of heels, more than one pair of tights, way too many bras, and even a particularly obnoxious loud set of bangle bracelets. This time I can’t help but wonder if there had been any more illicit behavior after the night faded to black. Briefly I check myself for hickeys before answering. 

-Who’s the underwear thief now?

Then, an immediate response. 

-You fookin left it in Adam’s bunk!!!

-Or you planted it there. 

-You could have gotten him in trouble wiv his girlfriend!!

I squint at the spelling, wondering if I should tease him for it. 

-Do you type in British also?

-Yes because I’m right cute and proper charming. 

God, he’s right. I hate that he’s right. 

It’s been several years since giddiness as strong as this has plagued me. Why the butterflies? Why the racing heartbeat? I can’t be starstruck over a celebrity I’ve never heard of before, can I?  
My phone chimes again. The smile is instinctive.

-You’ll get it back at the party 😜

-BYOB?

-Fook off 

-You fook off. 

The feeling is bizarre, the way I hunch over my phone waiting for an answer. The peculiarity of this behavior only strikes me once the back pain settles, and even then I wait several more minutes in anticipation.  
Too much, I decide, stripping away my clothing. I’m being too much.  
There’s an odd reluctance to shower off the grime of Warped Tour. I know I have less disgusting momentos, but my cursed sentimentality is a formidable adversary to logic. We all go home wearing each other’s sweat, and despite the unhygienic nature of it I will be sad to wash it away.  
Then, a response from Mr. Blud, my most unusual Warped Tour souvenir. 

-😊🖤🤪

The girlish twirl that follows is too corny to discuss. I put Yungblud’s discography on shuffle for my shower.


	9. Stupid Succulent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

Maya never fails to outdo me when we go out. The details are always spot on, no matter how obscure. She glues tiny rhinestones to the corners of her eyes and dons an elegant layer of glitter over all her exposed skin. Her lipstick matches her dress and her eyeshadow matches her shoes. Her curls hide the fifty hairpins undeniably littered across her scalp. She smells of peaches and vanilla and confidence.  
For my sake, she’s always sporting her Pride necklace, a dainty gold lesbian symbol hanging around her throat. I’m convinced men only notice me when I’m standing next to her because she gives off a clear message of disinterest. Otherwise I would never stand a chance.  
“You look great,” she tells me, licking her teeth. “Super fuckable.”  
“Do I have the lesbian stamp of approval?”  
“The eyeliner is a bit trashy,” she tells me. “But otherwise, absolutely.”  
I stretch to inspect my makeup in the rearview mirror. “Do I look like a hot mess?”  
“Couldn’t have said it better,” she says, putting the car in gear and starting down the alleyway. “Want to go over protocol?”  
I nod, signing along with my words. “Peace sign for supervision, devil horns for diversion, hang loose is a code blue. Meet by the front door if anything happens.”  
“You have condoms?” she asks me.  
“Yes,” I say, digging around in my tiny purse, counting the variety. “Flavored, spermicide, and,” I hold up a little black packet, “ribbed for her pleasure.”  
“Ew,” she says.  
“Do you have dental dams?” I ask her.  
“I usually improvise with a condom,” she says, sneaking a sideways glance into my open purse. “Is that a succulent?”  
I snap my bag shut and tuck it into my lap. “It’s a housewarming gift. Shut up.”  
The drive is supplemented with loud music à la Blink-182. The ride is short, just barely enough to get my adrenaline going, aided by Maya’s crackhead road habits. She merges recklessly and makes it onto exit ramps by the skin of her teeth.  
Dom’s street is packed, up and down the block, both sides lined with flashy cars and people trotting around smoking pot in small groups. There’s a bouncer at the door, basically the dictionary definition of a beefcake. We give our names, half shouting over the loud music, and he scans an intimidatingly long list on his phone before he steps aside to let us in.  
If it weren’t for all these people, I might pay better attention to Dom’s decorating style. If it’s anything like his style of dress, or style of speech, or style of music, or style of being, it must be eccentric, well-balanced, delivering a kind of eclectic satisfaction.  
Maya drags me straight to one of the bars dotted around this main living room, where another beefcake awaits our orders. She leans over and asks for our usual party drinks, a mint julep for me and a lemon drop for her. I’m not a particular fan of how his eyes rake over her, eyeing her like a carnivore at a butcher’s shop. He notices her necklace. I pull her tightly to me. The staring stops there.  
Our drinks are served with an impressive array of tricks. We commend him for his showmanship and continue our prowl, scanning for any potential conquest, but I would be lying if I said my hunt was genuine.  
I want to see Dom.  
We’ve been texting all week, and I’ve gone through the messages about a thousand times each. They’re punctuated with poorly angled selfies, videos of Dom jumping off things, attempting various soccer and skateboard tricks. I sent him pictures of bugs I found and videos of failed apartment gymnastics.  
Maya stops by the stairs, gesturing across the room with her martini. “Him?”  
“No,” I say, a little too quickly, then follow up with a justification. “He’s not my type.”  
“Bullshit,” she says. “He’s so your type. But, fine. See any for me?”  
“Pixie cut at eleven o’clock,” I tell her, nodding toward the piano at the other side of the room. “Feather earrings.”  
“I’ll keep her in mind,” she says, and we start up the stairs, arms linked.  
The second story is just as packed, and I have to physically restrain myself from prodding her to help me look for Dom. I point out a few girls here and there, cornrows with purple lipstick, shaved with the swooping neckline, both of which Maya makes a note of. A few attractive men appear in our sights as well, blonde with the nose ring, manbun with the leather pants, both of which Maya enthusiastically calls my attention to.  
Then, Maya stops, and I bump into her hard enough to slosh my mint julep over my fingers.  
“Her,” she says, fixated.  
I follow her gaze to a pink-haired bombshell with dark eyeliner and a silk dress. Maya levitates toward her, taking me with her, and the bombshell seems relieved for a distraction from her prior conversation.  
Maya introduces us, subtly adjusting her pendant on her throat, and reaches out to shake hands with her.  
Her name is Alex, and she’s got a voice sultry enough to melt Maya. It’s not long before she swats my hand, well below eye level, and I take my cue to excuse myself and leave.  
Coasting through parties has never been awkward for me, but now I feel less like a partygoer and more like an intruder. There are musicians all around me, discussing records and tours, rambling about wild groupie encounters or on-stage mishaps. People pack in tight groups, locked in conversation, and as I go between them I feel almost like a phantom. It’s unlike me.  
A warm hand comes down on my shoulder, stopping my momentum. I turn, coming face to face with a stranger with the darkest eyes and a perfectly done fohawk. He smiles at me with pierced lips and cozies up to me a little too quickly.  
“Where are you going? Party’s here, with me,” he says. “I’m Cole.”  
“Marley,” I tell him, and we shake hands. “You in a band?”  
“I’m a drum tech,” he says. “Been playing for ten years.”  
“That’s cool,” I say politely.  
“You look great,” he says. “I really like the dress.”  
“Looks better on the floor,” I tell him instinctively. I kick myself for it.  
“Oh,” he says. “You’re direct. I like that.”  
Why did I say that? Do I even want to hook up with this guy?  
Then, without a second thought, I find my thoughts on Dom again.  
“Do you know the host?” I ask.  
“Yeah, this is Yungblud’s place, right? His music slaps.”  
“Have you seen him?”  
He quirks one eyebrow. “No, I haven’t, but if you thought you’d get a chance to talk to him at his own party, you’ve got another thing coming. I hear he’s swarmed with girls. I’m your best bet tonight.”  
My chest clenches at this. “No, I just wanted to give him his housewarming gift.”  
“That’s cute, I guess,” he says. “You can give it to him later. How about you come with me to get another drink?”  
So, for the sake of another pass through the crowds, I follow him back downstairs, this time to a different bar with a different bartender. Cole orders a shot of tequila with a beer as a chaser, and he takes it right then and there at the bar. As he recovers I do a cursory scan of the room, seeing nobody I recognize.  
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” I say to him, grimacing at his unappealing beer guzzle.  
“Hurry back,” he says, catching a dribble of beer on his chin with the back of his hand.  
I’m glad he didn’t argue, or try to walk me there and creep outside the bathroom door. Possessiveness has always been a dealbreaker, even for prospective hookups. Less than ten seconds after I leave I hear his voice behind me, ordering another shot, which completely disqualifies him as tonight’s distraction.  
I snake through the crowd, looking for doors that could potentially be to a bathroom, clutching my mint julep like a lifeline. It’s a long, drawn out search, woven heedlessly between clumps of people locked in the mental fog of potential sex, a fog that I can’t seem to find tonight. A few guys try to chat me up in a similar style as the first one— what was his name? I’ve gotten worse about this.  
Finally, after ten minutes of aimless wandering, I find the bathroom and lock myself inside, setting my drink on the rim of the sink and staring into the mirror. Normally this ritual doesn’t happen until I’m tipsy at least, pep talking myself into semi-functionality. If I felt anything like myself I would have a list of guys in my head, voting them one by one off my sex island.  
The problem is, I feel nothing like myself, I don't have a list, and the entire premise of hookup culture, something I have enthusiastically participated in for a few years, has begun to disgust me. I don’t want to waste my night pretending to care about cars and vintage guitar models and soccer for another typical fuck. I’m tempted to grab Maya and just go home, only one drink in, considering how unlikely it is that I’ll get a word in with Dom at his own party.  
I blink at myself in the mirror. Is that what this is about? The threat of being ignored by him?  
I’m tempted to throw this stupid succulent in the garbage. It’s a symbol of my ignorance, really. How naïve must I have been to think that I could be someone special after a week?  
I leave the bathroom once someone outside starts knocking frantically. My return to the party is an unglamorous one, as I’m shoved out of the doorway by some guy with his pants halfway down. I trickle into the kitchen with my drink, trying to appreciate the decor in hopes of it replacing my angst.  
Sitting cross legged on the granite countertop of the kitchen is Dom, surrounded by starry eyed people, halfway undone by laughter. My instinct is to turn around and leave the kitchen, but Dom notices me once I’m one foot out the door.  
“Marley!” he says, as animated as ever. He hops down off the island and cuts through the gathered circle of spectators, making a beeline for me. This earns me the gaze of every single person among them.  
Dom hugs me around my shoulders, more heavily fragranced with aftershave than before. He’s freshly showered and shaved and perfumed, his disastrous hair slick with product and noncommittally swept off to one side. When our hug breaks he holds tight to my biceps, smiling easily, asking me how I’ve been since Warped Tour.  
What’s even more unlike me, I’m rendered speechless by all these things. I forsake the premise of words altogether, and instead elect to fish around for the succulent and hold it up like a sacrificial offering.  
“I got you this,” I say. “For your house.”  
“I fucking love it, man,” he says, accepting it in delicate hands. “Fuck, I think I oughta name it Marley.”  
“Cute,” I say, my heart leaping into my throat with every word he says.  
“Let me give you back your bra before I forget,” he says, taking my hand and guiding me out of the kitchen.  
It takes a full minute for me to realize that we must be en route to his bedroom.


	10. Noogies and Oblivion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

There’s an inexplicable nervousness that settles in my stomach when we reach his bedroom door. It’s protected with a coded lock, and he makes no intention to hide the numbers that let us in.  
Inside is a stockpile of all his valuables, mingling with the usual decor of the bedroom, though it’s impossible to distinguish what was stowed in here for the party. There are snazzy guitars on stands littering the room, various awards, scattered musical equipment and technology. The place isn’t color coordinated at all. There are shocks of bright pink in throw pillows and curtains, blues and grays, black and white accents, splashes of orange and green from music and movie posters all over the walls. Most of all, it smells like him, and it’s so weird that I know that.  
He reveals my bra from the top drawer of his wardrobe and tosses it to me. Is there no intimacy in handling someone’s undergarments? Or did we pass that threshold when I nicked his knickers?  
“Thanks,” I tell him.  
“As for him,” he says, holding up the tiny plant, doing a three-sixty spin in search of the proper place to put it.  
He jabs his finger toward the window, and he sashays over and ties back the hot pink curtain to place the pot on the ledge.  
“God, I hope I don’t kill it,” he says. “You’ll forgive me if I do, right?”  
“They’re hard to kill,” I say, chewing my lip, feeling the pulse of the music underfoot. “This party is pretty hype.”  
“Ain’t it?” he agrees excitedly, clapping his hands for emphasis. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d come.”  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
“Well, you’re too cool for me,” he says, leaping up onto his bed and bouncing down onto his knees.  
“You’re famous,” I tell him simply.  
“Yeah, well, I don’t feel like I am,” he says, flopping over, rolling onto his stomach, then onto his back again. “I feel like a kid at a birthday, except now every day is my birthday.”  
“No, what’s happening is you’re getting recognized for your talent,” I tell him, humorless.  
“You mean my tunes?”  
“That reminds me. I’ve been listening to your music. All of it actually.”  
He spins again, propping his chin on his hands. “What d’you think?”  
I wander to his wardrobe, investigating the random accessories stacked on top. I slip on a chunky pair of white sunglasses and a fingerless pair of striped gloves.  
“I would go into it,” I say, posing in the mirror on the opposite wall, “but I’d be a bad guest if I kept you away from your party for much longer.”  
“It’s my fucking party and I’ll hide if I want to,” he says, army crawling closer to me on the bed. “Go on, then. What’s your favorite?”  
“I have many favorites,” I tell him with a teasing shrug of indifference.  
“God dammit, Marley!”  
“Well, okay. Maybe it was Polygraph Eyes.” I pluck a heavy gold chain from a jewelry dish and drape it across my throat. “Do I look like Yungblud?”  
“Nah,” he says, beckoning me with a finger, getting up onto his knees. “C’mere.”  
I approach the bed warily, and he grabs me around the neck and noogies me into oblivion. When he sits backward onto his heels he’s visibly satisfied with his work.  
“Better?” I ask.  
“Do a spin,” he orders.  
I spin.  
“Yes, much better,” he says, yanking me by my hands onto his bed.  
In a second we’re both on our feet and jumping up and down on his mattress, badly singing Polygraph Eyes acapella. He holds tight to my hands, spinning us in circles, galloping in a circuit, shouting at the ceiling. My usual incoordination catches up with me, of course, and I trip over the comforter. Dom senses the impending crash and yanks me forward, clasping his arms around me, but the momentum is too great, and I drag both of us over the edge and onto the floor.  
Of the many unforeseeable events in my life, winding up tangled on the floor of the bedroom of a rockstar with said rockstar would have been one of the more far-fetched. Dom’s unabashed laughter cuts through any guilt I might feel, and before I know it, it’s just us, one on top of the other, giggling uncontrollably on the floor.  
“You alright?” he asks, still chuckling, cupping my chin and inspecting me for injuries.  
“No,” I answer teasingly, quickly captivated, leaning into his hands.  
After a moment it occurs to me that, oh my god, I’m not alright.  
An ugly realization hits me like a wrecking ball.  
I have a goddamn crush.  
“Oh my god,” I choke out, trapped somewhere in his eyes.  
“What’s wrong?” he asks, more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “Are you hurt? Your head?”  
“I think I should go,” I tell him numbly.  
“What? Why?” he asks, stunned. “Have I done something?”  
A crush, Marley? A fucking crush? What are you, twelve?  
“I’m sorry,” I say, struggling to my feet, stripping off his accessories and leaving them in the jewelry dish. “Thanks for inviting me to your party.”  
I make the mistake of chancing a final look at him, slumped on the ground with his hands in his lap, looking like a kicked puppy.  
“Did I offend you?” he asks softly.  
“No,” I retort. “No, it’s not you. You’re, well, you’re perfect, somehow.” I pinch my lips shut before I can say anything stupider. “Sorry. Goodnight.”  
I let myself out.


	11. The Pink Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for abduction / trafficking / assault.
> 
> PS: The damsel in distress thing isn’t usually my style.

Three days pass uneventfully. The morning after the party I threw myself into my work as a necessary distraction, though I doubt very much of my scripts were of any quality. I spent all day and night writing, collecting more commissions in those three days than I had in the entire week prior, where I was too distracted by the pink boy to focus.  
Yes, the pink boy. What was his name again?  
Shut up, Marley, you know his name. You’ve been clinging to his name in the back of your mind like a subconscious stuffed animal.  
My computer dies after my fifteenth script. I haven’t slept in over a day. There’s no outlet by my bed, so I know I can’t plug it in and keep writing. I have to be alone with my thoughts, because even social media has made me its target. Everywhere I look are concert videos of Dom, all over my explore page, all over my feed, everywhere. They depress me.  
Naturally, I go to a bar, but I go alone. If I had invited Maya we could have just taken her car, but I haven’t been able to talk about my issues since the party. The Uber ride is silent and thoughtless. God, I’m so emo.  
The bar is one selected at random, a Wild West themed dive bar in west Hollywood. It’s Tuesday, so it’s understandably quiet inside, with only the occasional pair or trio scattered around at tables or playing pool.  
I know I shouldn’t, but I get hammered. I skip the cocktails altogether in hopes of dodging the thoughtful, existentialist stage of drunkenness where I would inevitably try to psychoanalyze myself.  
Though maybe it would do me some good.  
What’s wrong with a crush, really? Doesn’t everybody get them?  
Doesn’t everybody have feelings?  
It doesn’t seem like I do.  
It doesn’t seem like I have for quite a while, actually.  
Not since Ben, I guess.  
Or rather, since the day I discovered that all he was really interested in was my virginity.  
I slap my hand down on the bar and order another shot, instantly regretting my venture into my own mind. It’s always better to leave those things alone, isn’t it?  
Then, as if I weren’t miserable enough, Dom texts me. 

-Sorry if I did something wrong the other night.

Should I even respond? Would my drunkenness be obvious?

-You really didn’t. I m just dumb sometimes 

Thank god for autocorrect. 

-😞

Jesus, Dom, with the emojis. I order another shot, but the bartender cuts me off. I curse at her. She ignores me. 

-You deserve better. 

I mean it, he does. He really does. 

-Wym?

-Stole your underwear. I been a real POS since then. Why b friends?

He doesn’t respond for several minutes. Then, from him,

-You ok?

-Drunk. 

Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have told him.

-Wiv your mates at least?

I demand another shot from the bartender. This time she calls the bouncer to remove me. He’s really nice as he’s kicking me out, he even offers to call me an Uber, but I spit at him and swear and kick and eventually he just leaves me on the bench by the sidewalk. I text Maya for a ride home. 

-Marley???? Wiv your mates?

-Nah. Solo 2nite. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small trio of men begin to enter and exit a bar across the street. Every few minutes they come out, stare intently at me for a second, and then return inside. 

-You’ll be ok?

The trio returns, and if I was unsure before, now they’re pointing at me. They return inside, holding their stare for a moment too long.  
I call Maya, but there’s no answer. I call her again. Nothing.  
It’s dark outside, the road lit only by streetlamps.  
An Uber won’t be here in time, I know that from experience. Their ETAs are always bullshit. Maybe I don’t want to risk it.  
I call Maya again. Her phone must be off.  
I check the Uber app. The nearest driver won’t arrive for twenty minutes.  
I call Maya again. The men across the street appear and disappear again.  
Then, from Dom. 

-Hello????

I don’t want to do it. Not after everything.  
The men reappear.  
I have to, don’t I?

-Plz can you pick me up. There’s guys. 

Then, immediately,

-Addy

I drop my location. There’s no answer after this.  
The trio goes to the far side of the block, and I think for a split second that they’ve decided to leave me alone, but they turn and look at me over their shoulders. They stop at the crosswalk and jab at the button, silhouetted by the streetlight. I can barely focus.  
I turn, looking for the bouncer, but he’s nowhere in sight. I stand up, maybe to run away, but my head spins hard enough to sit me down again. All my mother’s warnings ring in my ears. I should have listened.  
The stoplight turns red. The men begin to cross. I stand again, and fall again. My breathing grows ragged despite my efforts to steady it. My balance has forsaken me completely, it seems, and I feel stupid just sitting, awaiting the inevitable altercation.  
It’s not that I’m losing my grip on awareness, no, it’s that I’ve lost my grip on everything else. Speech. Balance. Direction. Logic. Time. I don’t know how long it will be before they’re here.  
I stand, and fall down once more. If I attempt to run and knock myself out then I’ll be damned for sure. Why can’t I breathe properly? How far is the bar? Can I make it back to the bar? I can’t even see the lights. I can’t even see the bouncer.  
They’re coming down my sidewalk now. I watch their every step. They’re within the glow of my streetlight. They’re at the other end of my bench. I look for the bouncer again, not there. My shaky fingers begin to dial 911 but with all this adrenaline I can’t seem to coordinate them over the proper numbers.  
Three pairs of shoes appear before me. I look up. There’s a tall one, a pale one, and a chubby one, all six eyes raking my body maliciously. The chubby one slaps my phone out of my hands.  
“Hey,” the tall one says. “What’s your name?”  
“Fuck off,” I say, attempting to crawl backward over the bench.  
The chubby one grabs my arm and reorients me in my seat. “How old are you?”  
“Fuck off,” I repeat, ripping my arm free. The sudden motion makes me dizzy. My head drops forward slightly.  
“Get the car,” the pale one says to the tall one.  
The tall one disappears. The pale one sits beside me on the bench and puts an arm around me that I am too clumsy to reject.  
“You like parties?” he asks me.  
I try to stand again, but he pins me down.  
“I’ll put…” I trail off. “I’ll put your fucking testicles in a blender.”  
“Feisty,” the chubby one praises.  
“Don’t be scared,” the pale one says, fingering my bra strap. “We’re just going to take you to a party.”  
My last resort is to spit. Vomit. Piss. Something to turn them away. The most I can manage is a thick dribble of drool down my own shirt.  
“You going to tell us your name?” the pale one coaxes. “We just want your name.”  
A car pulls up. My stomach sinks to my knees.  
If I wind up in that car, will I ever see daylight again?  
A car door closes. I summon the last of my strength and flail and fight, cursing and spitting and shoving and scratching. The screams come out choked, but my episode is enough to distance myself. I buck myself onto my feet, scrambling for balance, lunging forward for any distance I can manage. In my head I’m already surrounded. In my head I’ve just surrendered myself.  
I collapse onto all fours, waiting to be seized.  
There’s no grabbing. Just the sound of shouting behind me.  
British shouting.  
Then, a piercing crack of bone on bone impact. I roll onto my back, propped up on my elbows, watching the fight unfold through staggered and blurred vision. A pair of pink socks has appeared, ducking and dodging, skating across the sidewalk with unfathomable ease.  
Dom swings. There’s another echoing crack.  
The chubby one is halfway to the end of the block, sprinting on panicked legs. The pale one collapses onto the bench where I was a moment ago, blood gushing from his nostrils. Dom spits on him, cursing, stomping like an enraged bull. His voice sounds so distant, like I’m watching him save me on a cheap television set.  
Then reality hits, and he’s beside me, collecting me into a sitting position and stroking hot tears from my cheeks.  
“Let’s go,” I hear him say, his voice frantic. “C’mon, Marley, we have to go.”  
He loops my arms around his shoulders and hoists me to my feet, steering me into the passenger’s seat and buckling me in. There’s a pause, and he shoves my phone into my hand and closes the door. Then, he hurries around the front of the car, slides behind the wheel, and floors the gas.


	12. Something That Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The car ride home is quiet and slicked with tears. I think Dom might have tried to strike up a conversation or two, but if I was inept before I’m incapable now. His words don’t register. My heart is thundering over the sound of his voice.  
At one point he stops the car and asks for directions to my place, but I can’t give them. I don’t even remember where I live. Am I homeless? Where do I fucking live?  
Even if I knew I couldn’t articulate left or right, north or south. The freeways would be impossible for me to navigate. Sure as hell I can’t remember my street address.  
After several minutes of what must be incoherent sputtering, he simply puts the car in drive once more and takes me away into the night. Several minutes of numbness pass before we pull into his garage and park. He asks some more questions that I don’t answer. How much have I had to drink?  
Dammit, Marley. You fucking idiot.  
He opens my door, pockets my cell phone, and loops his arm around my shoulders, helping me out of the car and into his house. The stairs are a struggle. We fall down twice thanks to my tragic equilibrium. Each time he picks us both up and we continue along to his bedroom.  
He seats me on the bed and asks me another question. This time he doesn’t wait for an answer. He lays out a sweater and a pair of basketball shorts on the bed and ties my hair back with a rubber band. I call for him when he disappears into his bathroom, and whine when he reappears with a little first aid kit, identical to the one he treated me with before. Both my knees and both my palms are scraped from my fall. He dabs at them with a cotton ball soaked in something that burns, and bandages both my knees. Then, without any warning, he takes a baby wipe to my face and removes my eyeliner and lipstick, both of which I started wearing after our night together on the tour bus. I sputter like a child as he does so, and at the very least this earns me a much needed giggle.  
He disappears again, this time for longer. I’m mostly dressed in his clothing by the time he returns, stumbling clumsily around with one arm in his sweater. He helps me into it, of course he fucking does. Then, he sets a bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand, and very subtly nudges the trash can closer to the bed with his toe, before making his way back for the door.  
“Dom,” I say. He turns.  
Then, like the stupid asshole I am, I throw the water bottle at his chest in a spurt of undeserved fury strong enough to deliver some semblance of angry coherence. Despite the clumsy throw he catches it fluidly, holding it up with both eyebrows raised in a way that says, What the fuck?  
“Why?” I demand, slapping my hands down on the bed. “I’m an ass. I’m an idiot. Why be nice? Why not let me get what’s coming to me?”  
Dom sighs and sets the bottle back on the nightstand, kneeling before me and taking both my hands.  
“I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re hurting,” he says solemnly.  
“Why do you care?”  
“Self-destruction in the name of pain isn’t unfamiliar to me,” he says. “Let’s talk tomorrow, yeah?”  
“Why not now? I’m fine.”  
“Goodnight, Marley,” he says smiling a sad smile that makes my heart hurt. With a squeeze of my fingers, he rises and makes for the door.  
“Where are you going?” I say. “This is your room.”  
“The couch,” he tells me, pointing over his shoulder. “The guest bedrooms don’t have mattresses in them yet.”  
“Don’t go,” I plead. “I know I’m pathetic. Please stay. Don’t let me kick you out of your bedroom. I’ll go to the couch if you want.”  
“I‘d feel bad to stick you there.”  
“So would I,” I insist. “Then stay here with me.”  
“I think it’s best to give you some space.”  
“Please,” I beg, the dread settling in my ribs like a boulder perched on my chest. “Bad things happen when I’m alone.”  
He sighs, pouting, and pulls his hood over his head. “You sure that’s what you want?”  
I blink slowly, suddenly losing track of all my limbs. “Please. Save me from myself.”  
Another sigh. Another pout. He approaches me again, pulling up the sheets on my side of the neatly made bed, and tucks me in with such tenderness that my mind is called back to my childhood. Then, he pulls a dainty pink quilt from his closet and dims the lights, surrounding us both in calm ambience. He settles on top of the duvet on the other side of the bed and wraps himself in his quilt, still fully dressed, and falls completely silent.  
I think one of my hands wriggles out from under the blanket and sweeps over the duvet. I think it’s looking for Dom. And I think he gives me his hand, maybe out of pity. And I think I grab on and cling to it for dear life.  
I think.  
Tomorrow, I decide, I will find a way to repay all of tonight’s accumulated debts.  
Tonight, however, all I can do is hold on.


	13. Charming Bedhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The morning is greeted with an ugly, spinning headache. My stupid succulent is on the windowsill, silhouetted in sunlight. Dom is asleep beside me, curled up in his quilt.  
Unfortunately, I know the drill. I take my water bottle to the bathroom, scrub my face in the sink, puke my guts out, then scrub my face again. Snapshots of last night return to me one by one. Drinking at the bar. Getting kicked out. The three men. Dom coming to my rescue. The teary ride home. Begging him to stay with me. Him actually doing it.  
Then, something new surfaces, something unearthed from some deeper part of my memory.  
Maya had called back after I was in bed, hadn’t she? Dom had answered for me, and despite my blurry grasp on reality I had done my best to eavesdrop.  
“Hey. It’s Dom. Yeah, Yungblud. No, she’s here with me, sleeping. Yeah, it was awful, but she’s fine now. I’ll tell her to call you so she can give the details. Okay. No worries. Goodnight.”  
God, that had made my heart so weak. Even now, recalling my drunken state of sleepy vulnerability, it warms the depths of my chest. It’s unfamiliar and, unfortunately, very welcome. Too welcome.  
Maybe I should tell him how much he’s come to mean to me. Is that reckless of me? Is that how to lose someone forever?  
I suppose if my soul wore a burlap sack before, now it’s in a sundress, frolicking, blissfully carefree. The mud has been hosed away to reveal the tiniest nugget of hope, taking tiny, tentative steps into the world again.  
I peek out into the bedroom from the bathroom, finding Dom still asleep under the quilt. I sit beside him in the bed, allowing last night’s embarrassment to creep in.  
To suddenly abandon him at his own party, and offer no explanation, and then call upon him unexpectedly after three days of radio silence? To have to bite back pride and ask to be saved after having inebriated myself into sorry helplessness? All because I can’t deal with a simple crush?  
It gets worse, of course it does. It feels like I reverted to complete immaturity, having to be picked off the ground, my tears wiped, my booboos cleaned, and eventually tucked into bed. And, if that weren’t enough, I’d cursed, I’d thrown things, I’d been bitter and ungrateful and then begged to sleep beside him. Commandeered his house, his bedroom, his goddamn bed. I’m wearing his clothes. I’d probably ruined his night. How many boundaries had I crossed? How many rules had I violated?  
Had I said something regrettable in my boozy honesty?  
I’m a fucking disgrace.  
Dom’s voice startles me out of my shameful trance.  
“You alright?” he asks me, sitting up and flicking off the quilt.  
I smear my hands down my face, as if to wipe away my embarrassment. “I don’t even know what to say,” I begin. “I’m so sorry, Dom.”  
“For what?” he asks, rubbing one eye and yawning.  
“For everything. For wrecking your night. For, just, everything. Believe me when I say I really tried not to drag you into it, but Maya wasn’t answering, and I just—”  
“Don’t apologize for calling me,” he interjects, waving away my excuses. “Hell, I wish you had called me earlier.”  
“I think you saved my life,” I tell him, chewing anxiously on a corner of the sleeve that I’ve forgotten isn’t mine. “I don’t know how to thank you properly, or how to repay you for it all, or even how to goddamn apologize—”  
“Marley,” he says, both softly and sincerely enough to make me want to fling myself into his arms. “I’m just so relieved you’re safe.”  
“That makes no sense to me,” I tell him frustratedly.  
“You know, I think I’m starting to understand,” he says, yanking his hood down and exposing his charming bedhead. “People are allowed to care about each other. And I do care for you. Is that so off to you?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“I’m seeing a pattern in you, Marley. I’ve never been the cold and unfeeling type. I’m soft. I care. Can’t you please just let it be?”  
His words render me completely speechless.  
“None of this was a favor, or a burden. Sometimes, people look out for each other out of genuine love and concern. That should be enough. No repayment. No apologies. Okay?”  
I jerk my face away at the pricking feeling of tears in my eyes. “Okay.”  
Tell him. You have to tell him.  
“Dom,” I breathe out. “Dom, I think I…”  
He waits patiently for the rest of my confession, but it never comes.  
My confidence sputters out and dies, right then and there. His lips quirk up a little in encouragement, but it’s not enough.  
“Can I buy you a milkshake?” I ask him.  
He tosses his head back and laughs.  
“Sure, why not?” he asks. “Does that mean we have dinner plans or summat?”  
“How about Friday?”  
“Let’s do Friday,” he confirms, with a stout nod and a smile that makes my heart stop. “Feel like breakfast? I googled how to make crepes the other day and I think I’m well good at making them.”  
“I’m down,” I tell him, and we leave together to the kitchen to cook.


	14. PacMan With Fangs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

Dom’s kitchen is flooded with the kind of summery sunlight that usually hurts my head, but today I don’t mind so much. It sets him aglow and warms the floor beneath our bare feet as we twirl and dance like drunks.  
Lady Gaga plays on his speakers, which are wired all over the house. Her voice reminds me of my pre-emo adolescence, to a time where I wondered every day if it really was possible to be both weird and loved, without having to pick between them.  
Dom hadn’t lied. He’s cranking out beautiful crepes every few minutes, slapping them down on the plate as if he were dunking a basketball. I stand beside the stove, cutting fruit into ugly little slices and laughing at his antics, despite my piercing headache.  
“Alright,” he says, stepping away from the pan. “Your turn.”  
“Wrong.”  
“Nope. No, none of that,” he says, waggling a disapproving finger and pulling me by the arm in front of the stove. “Come on, you can do it. Take a spoonful of the batter. Don’t forget to grease your pan.”  
With a partially unwrapped stick of butter, I slide the exposed end around in the hot pan and flinch at the harsh sizzling. Then, I ladle some batter into the pan and make a gratuitous mess.  
“Fuck,” I say.  
“No worries. Quick, swirl it.”  
I try to do as he says, but the batter cooks into a bizarre shape before I can get it to every edge of the pan. Dom hands me the spatula to flip it, and by the time I get enough leverage to do so the other side is far beyond golden brown. I drop it with the pile of Dom’s neatly made crepes.  
“Looks like a Pac-Man with fangs or summat,” he comments lightly. “Sick.”  
“Ugly little thing, really,” I say, setting the pan down with a clatter. A runaway spark catches some burning batter that I had spilled, and within a minute we have a tiny little flame burning on Dom’s stovetop.  
My reactions are too delayed to panic immediately. Before I can lose my shit, Dom doubles over and extinguishes the flame with a well executed puff.  
“Oh my god,” I say, stunned. “Did I almost burn your house down?”  
“No need to be so dramatic,” he says, waving me off. “It was sick.”  
He kills the gas and takes his stack of crepes, holding it in the sunlight to be properly admired, before we adjourn to the kitchen table with our tray between us.  
Between is an array of sweets, sliced strawberries and bananas, Nutella and whipped cream, peanut butter and strawberry preserves.  
I can’t resist the temptation. I swipe the can before Dom can reach it and hold the nozzle toward him.  
“C’mere,” I say, waving it slightly. “Accept your fate.”  
He does, wordlessly opening his mouth. It’s almost brutal how much whipped cream I dispense, so much that he jerks forward so the overflow can fall onto his plate rather than his lap. It’s hilarious, it really is, and though he wants to convince me he’s annoyed he can’t help the giggling that sprays whipped cream across the table.  
We exchange glances, and burst into laughter all over again, so heaving and carefree that my abdomen begins to ache with exertion. Several napkins and even more curse words later, Dom is relatively clean and scolding me in his sweetest tone.  
“Fuck me, man, I’m sticky,” he says, licking his index finger, then his middle.  
“I see your problem,” I say, slapping a crepe down onto his plate. “Have you considered not being sticky?”  
“It’s crossed my mind,” he says, reaching for my clumsily cut pile of strawberries. “Do you want to talk about last night?”  
“I thought we already did,” I say, with a generous smear of Nutella over my crepe.  
“Did something happen that made you want to get shitfaced alone at a bar?”  
Last night’s logic resurfaces. My mind spills all the things that I’ll never admit.  
God, I’ve never been into someone this much. I’ve never watched their every move, listened to the inflection of every word.  
Why can’t I know what you’re thinking? Am I on your mind? Am I just another friendly face amongst all the people you care about?  
“Work,” I say. “I’m a freelance writer. I was having some creative difficulties.”  
“I don’t believe you,” he says, carefully rolling his crepe. “Tell me whenever you’re ready.”  
“All we ever talk about is me and my nonsense,” I say. “I want to know about you, Dom.”  
He shrugs one shoulder. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”  
“Well, what makes you happiest?” I ask him, leaning slightly over the table in hopes that he perceives my genuine interest.  
My genuine love and concern.  
“Music. People. Food.” He shoves the crepe into his mouth and shrugs. Then, muffled, “Easy.”  
“Is that what inspires your music?”  
“I guess so,” he says, serving himself another crepe. “I think I write mostly about the bullshit in society that goes unquestioned. The things that need to be brought to attention before we can change them.”  
“Yeah,” I agree. “You write some heavy stuff.”  
“And all to an upbeat tune,” he says. “My shows are mental, man. I don’t know what I’d do without my fans.”  
Fans. I’d forgotten he has fans, that he’s not my personal souvenir, snatched up from Warped Tour for keeps.  
“I’ve never seen you perform live.”  
“Didn’t you catch me at Warped Tour?”  
“No, I was burgling some underwear at the time.”  
He grins, letting a few chuckles sputter out. “Well, you should see one of my shows. Feels like I come alive on stage.”  
“I’ve seen videos,” I say. “Where do you get all the energy?”  
“The ADHD,” he says simply, alongside another toothy smile. “Been buzzing all my life.”  
“I figured,” I say. “You were the ADHD kid. I was the depressed kid.” I steal a glance up at him to scan for a reaction. “When I was young and didn’t know better, I envied the people like you, so full of life and energy.”  
“And I guess I envied the people like you, able to sit quietly for long enough to focus.”  
I nod along with his words, picking at the torn up crepe under my fork. “Makes you realize that, no matter what, everything sucks in one way or another.”  
“Everything sucks ‘til you find your place in the world,” he says. “Thank god I found mine. You find yours?”  
He looks up at me with those seafoam eyes again, and silently I confess. It’s with you. With you. With you.  
“I’m looking,” I tell him, and I swear I’m about to do it. The words are on the tip of my tongue.  
Hey, Dom, it’s me, Marley. Warped Tour girl. The drunk with all the inhibitions. Anyway, I have a big fat fucking crush on you and I want to date you. Properly. I want to smash my stupid face on your stupid face and have you like it as much as I would.  
My phone rings in Dom’s pocket, making us both jump. He slides it over to me wordlessly as Maya’s name flashes on the screen.  
“That reminds me,” he says. “Maya called. You need to call her back.”  
I snort. “Thanks, Dom.”  
I put Maya on speaker and warn her not to say anything stupid.  
“Mr. Blud said you’d call. Why haven’t you called?” she demands.  
“We’re having breakfast,” I tell her innocently.  
“What happened last night? Don’t downplay or sugarcoat. I want the truth.”  
“Some guys bugged me outside a bar,” I say with a pointless shrug. “Dom pulled my ass back from the ledge and took me to his place.”  
Her voice explodes just as I had anticipated. “What the fuck, Marley? Were you drunk?”  
“Kind of,” I say.  
Dom rolls his eyes at me.  
“Okay. Shitfaced. Maybe a bad move on my part, but nothing happened.”  
“What did they do?” she asks, taking on her stern, maternal voice.  
“I guess they tried to abduct me.” My throat tightens at the memory. “Tried to put me in their car or something, I don’t remember.”  
“What the fuck, Marley. You need to go to the police.”  
“Why?” I say defensively. “I was blackout drunk, I don’t even think I got a good look at them. Even if I did, I don’t remember enough to describe them.”  
“You know you’re not the only one,” Maya tells me. “Maybe your silence is the difference between another girl’s life and death.”  
Dom nods slowly along with her words, his eyes down and dark now. “Yeah. What if.”  
“Okay,” I relent. “Maybe you’re right.”  
“Did Yungblud get a good look at them?”  
“His name is Dom, you boomer,” I correct her, and Dom cracks a smile at this.  
Dom. Dominic. What a lovely name.  
“It happened fast,” he says, “but I think I could give a description.”  
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the station by your place. Cool?”  
“Fine. I’ll text you when we leave.”  
“Okay,” she agrees.  
“Don’t wait up,” I say, and Maya hangs up on me.


	15. Spotty Descriptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

I am not and have never been very lovey-dovey. I generally embody an overly stoic stereotype, sometimes to a fault, almost all the time at my own expense. I have no idea how to change that.  
There was no issue on the drive to the station. Dom and I laughed and sang along to the radio and poked fun at one another like old friends. When we pulled into the lot and got out of the car Maya attacked me with hugs and kisses and weepy questions. I was fine then, too.  
It was only when Dom filled in my spotty descriptions to a waiting cop with a notepad did I begin to cry. Maya and Dom both held my hands and didn’t mention the tears, even after we left.  
Now we sit on the hood of Maya’s car in silence, cross legged and frowning. Both Dom’s hands remain cupped over mine, warming them despite the early August heat, tracing my cuticles with his nails. I can feel his breath down my arm, the tickle of his leg hair against my knee. It would be the most gratifying thing in the world to crawl into his hoodie and squish us together.  
“Dom, your knuckles,” I say softly, grazing my thumb over the visible bruises. Why hadn’t I noticed these before?  
“I think they look kind of sick,” he says with an easy shrug.  
“They do,” Maya agrees. “They really do.”  
More silence follows. Dom lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my palm, offering what I have come to know as a smile of deep empathy.  
“I think you should get some proper rest,” he says, his voice soft and slow. “Are we on for Friday?”  
“Of course,” I agree. “One milkshake in exchange for my life.”  
“Sounds fair,” he says, sliding down off the hood and turning toward Maya. “Good to see you again.”  
“Wait,” she says, hopping down after him. She flings both arms around him and squeezes a cough out of him, clinging for several seconds too long. “You have no idea how grateful I am.”  
Dom steals a glance at me from over Maya’s shoulder, his eyes bulging from her iron grip. “I think I’m starting to understand.”  
Maya releases him, squeezing his forearms as they separate. He nods at her reassuringly, a gesture which she mirrors automatically.  
“Drive safe,” he says to her. “Bye, Marley.”  
“Thanks again, Dom,” I say, and it’s almost offensive how my words don’t seem to do his deed justice. He leaves a kiss on my cheek before he goes, a touch that tingles on my skin for several minutes after.  
We both watch his car pull out of the station’s driveway. Maya joins me on the hood after his absence settles. I wonder if I’m about to be lectured in Maya’s mom voice and pummeled with questions.  
When she finally speaks, her tone stuns me.  
“Why, Marley?” she asks me softly. “It’s so unlike you to do what you did last night.”  
“I know.”  
“You’ve been acting weird since the party,” she continues. “Is it something I’ve done?”  
“I think I should have gone to therapy after Ben,” I say. “He must have fucked me up more than I thought.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“He was the last guy I actually cared about. Romantically, intimately, whatever.” I clear my throat, secretly wanting to be interrupted, but Maya’s interjection never comes. “Until Dom.”  
“You’re, like, crushing?”  
“Hard.”  
“That’s so bizarre,” she mutters, scraping along her bottom lip with her pinky nail. “I’ve never seen you crush on anyone.”  
“That’s because Ben was the last real crush I had,” I say. “You and I became friends when you dumped his ass for cheating.”  
“And you made me realize I was gay,” she says, trying to wipe away her smirk. “Why freak out over a crush, though, Marley?”  
“I guess it just triggered all the memories from my last one,” I say, chewing uncomfortably on the end of my hair. “What do I do, Maya?”  
“What you always do?” she says with a puzzled quirk of the eyebrow. “Just make a move.”  
“You don’t get it. This can’t be just a hookup this time. I have to be careful or someone will get hurt. Probably me, because I’m an idiot.”  
Maya scoots closer to me on the hood and lays a compassionate hand on my knee. “Well, if it’s so important, why not tell him? He seems nice enough.”  
“Do you think we would be friends if you and I had dated?” I ask her.  
“Not even for a second. But neither of us are very nice. Not nearly as nice as Blud boy.”  
“Dominic,” I correct her. His name rolls off the tongue nicely. “Dominic.”  
“God, you’re like a lovesick puppy,” she says, pushing me off the hood and directing me toward the passenger’s side door. “I’ll take you home so you can yearn in peace.”


	16. Celebratory Wiggling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The following day I spend planning something nice for Dom. I don’t actually come up with anything solid, but thinking about it makes me feel better. The premise of him being happy for something I’ve done is gratifying on its own.  
If my studio came with a stove I might bake him a cake. I would do all the googling, track down all the ingredients. It would look like garbage but he would accept it, and compliment it, and thank me, and kiss my cheek, and hug me, and then we’d share it, and then we’d have a rampant sugar rush, and when we crashed we’d fall asleep side by side.  
Maybe I should have gotten a place with a stove.  
It’s about eight when I get the call.  
Mr. Blud’s name lights up my phone. My heart does somersaults in my chest, creating such a crushing anticipation that I forget to let it ring a few times.  
“Hey, Dom.”  
“Hey, Marley.”  
There’s something different in his voice that upsets me immediately. “What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing, really. I just…”  
He trails off.  
“Dom?”  
“I can’t seem to calm myself down this time.” He draws a long, tense breath that gives me chills, even over the phone. “You know, the anxiety.”  
“Oh,” I say. “How do I help?”  
“I don’t know. Talk to me.”  
“Okay,” I say, the softness in his voice flattening any ability I have to consider a topic. He’s been on my mind. I want him to know that. “I was going to bake you a cake.”  
“A cake?”  
“Yeah. You know, as a thank you for saving my ass the other day. Should I go into detail about it?”  
“Please.”  
“Okay,” I say, plopping myself down on my bed and kicking both my legs up. “Well, I would have decorated it pink. Duh, right? Three layers, Neapolitan. It would have been heart shaped, with buttercream frosting. An unbelievable amount of red food coloring. We’d have lost our minds. Our goddamn piss would have been pink.”  
A light laugh on the other end. “I didn’t know you were such a talented baker.”  
“Oh, I can’t bake for shit, but I would have tried like hell. You know, if my place had a stove.”  
“You don’t have a stove?”  
“I live in a bachelor’s studio,” I tell him. “That means no kitchen.”  
“You don’t even have a kitchen?” he asks, aghast. “How do you feed yourself?”  
“With a microwave, and every food delivery service I can find. I found this place on Sunset with this killer noodle dish.” I pause. “Can I send some your way?”  
“Come teach me how to do it,” he says. “Please?”  
I’m on my feet in an instant, scrambling around for my shoes.  
“Marley?”  
Fuck. Why can’t I ever play it cool?  
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, propping myself against the bed to mute the frantic background noise of me trying to get myself together. “I’ll be over soon. Is there anything I can bring to make you feel better?”  
“Just you,” he says. His voice is notably stronger than it was at the start.  
My cheeks go bright red.  
“Just me,” I echo. “Okay. I’ll hurry.”  
“Okay,” he says.  
We hang up. All hell breaks loose in my mind as I race to do myself up in the Yungblud-approved makeup. His words reverberate viciously, so much so that I can hardly concentrate on my internal conflict.  
Just you.  
Is that an indirect admission of love?  
Just me.  
What’ll happen tonight? Should I wear nice lingerie? Extra perfume? Flavored lip balm?  
Just you.  
I’m halfway through brushing my teeth when the reality sets in. Dom’s just being Dom, of course. Friendly to a fault, devastatingly appealing. How had I forgotten that crushes tend to dim common sense?  
Two minutes before my Uber arrives I pause by my counter, contemplating. On my way out I grab a bottle of wine and a bag of marshmallows, for reasons I didn’t think through.  
This time my driver is talkative, enthusiastically asking about my weekend plans, telling me about her baby cousin who’s about to start kindergarten. I tip her well at the end of my ride, and she wishes luck to me and my bottle of wine. Women like her make the world go around.  
Dom answers the door, hunched and hollow. I open my mouth to greet him, but he holds up his hand. The visible shaking steals my words.  
“It won’t stop,” he tells me soberly.  
“Oh my god,” I say, passing him to set my pointless gifts down on the coffee table. “What do I do?”  
He shrugs.  
“Can I touch you?”  
He nods.  
I take his hands and seat him on the sofa, chewing my lips in desperation for an answer. The feeling of uselessness is one I know well.  
“Music, maybe?” I say, pulling out my phone to scan my library for something soothing. I put a jazz playlist on low volume, searching his face for results.  
His tension melts ever so slightly into the beat.  
“We can talk about stuff,” I tell him.  
He shrugs one noncommittal shoulder. “Tell me a story.”  
“A story,” I repeat. “I went to this festival not long ago. I met this idiot who bet me to steal some underwear.”  
He smirks. “Details, please.”  
“Well,” I begin, “the fence had a hole in it, sealed off with a tarp and some cable ties. We broke through that by melting the cable ties. We went bus to bus, you know, hiding from security. Neither I nor Maya knew your name.”  
He readjusts on the couch, turning and reclining into my lap, his head warm and heavy on my thighs. “How’d you wind up on my bus, then?”  
“Well, I think he’d told us about two artists. You, and Machine Gun Kelly.”  
“We did a song together at Warped.”  
“I know. I’ve listened to it about a thousand times since then,” I tell him, threading my fingers into his hair and making steady trails along his scalp. “Anyway, Maya and I figured Machine Gun Kelly didn’t sound like someone who would have beef with Eminem. Different genres, you know, cause rappers tend to have beef with other rappers. I thought Yungblud sounded more hip-hop.”  
“Double the U…” he says, trailing off.  
“Double the flavor,” I finish. How dorky that is. How adorable.  
“I was raised on hip-hop, you know.”  
“I do know. I’ve been…” I clear my throat in preemptive embarrassment for what I’m about to admit. “I’ve been watching your interviews.”  
“Christ, why?” he asks, squinting up at me. “You’ve got the real thing right in front of you. All the flavor, up close and personal.”  
“Well, I forget about your celebrity status sometimes. It’s better to keep it in mind, so it won’t hurt so much when you inevitably ditch me for your other celebrity friends.”  
“Marley,” he says tiredly. “I don’t have that mentality. There’s no pedestal, there’s no hierarchy, it’s just about the music. I swear.”  
“Yeah. I’m trying to believe that,” I tell him, tugging at the end of his hair. “Tonight’s not about me, though.”  
He huffs, his head dropping to one side. “I could have called anyone, you know, but I called you.”  
Fuck, he’s right. I need to avoid getting so emo that he regrets choosing me. Tonight’s about Dom, making Dom feel better.  
“Are you hungry?” I ask him, cupping his chin.  
“I wasn’t before. I am now.”  
“That’s a good sign, right?” I say, pausing the jazz music on my phone and opening the Postmates app.  
“Yes, but I’ll never admit that,” he says, shuffling in my lap so he can see my screen. “Alright. Teach me the magic.”  
So, step by step, I take him through the process of mobile food ordering. He offers the occasional question, prodding at various buttons and offsetting my concentration. As expected, it is all very endearing, and it only takes twenty minutes or so to actually order, considering the various hiccups in the lesson.  
I lean over him, toward the coffee table, and pluck up the bag of marshmallows. “Tell me something.”  
“I’d tell you anything.”  
“Why’d you invite me, a stranger, onto your tour bus? Honestly.”  
“Adam asked me the same thing,” he says, jabbing his index finger against the pillowy bottom of the bag. “He thought I was a proper idiot, bringing a random girl on the bus.”  
“Especially one that had already broken into it,” I add. “So. Why?”  
“It didn’t even occur to me,” he says. “Maybe it was naïve of me, but I felt no distrust toward you. Just, well, a click.”  
I tear open the bag, cocking an eyebrow. “A click?”  
“Don’t disagree with me now,” he groans, opening his mouth to receive a marshmallow. “It couldn’t have just been your carnal desire for me that fostered our friendship.”  
My heart rate spikes. “My what?”  
He cracks the first real smile I’ve seen all evening. “You wanted to hook up, remember?”  
“Not explicitly,” I say, defensive. “I thought that’s what you wanted. Why else would a guy invite me to his tour bus?”  
“Yes, I haven’t forgotten. You kissed me.”  
My face goes red at the memory. I didn’t have the foresight back then to know how much of a mistake it would have been, but now it rings in my mind as the one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever done.  
“Yeah,” I say, twiddling my thumbs with the marshmallow bag between them. “I did apologize for that, right?”  
“More than once,” he says, and the laugh that follows revitalizes my soul. “I didn’t mind it then and I don’t mind it now.”  
I stuff another marshmallow in his mouth to silence him, buying enough time to decode his words. What is all this teasing? Is it flirtation? Was that last statement an invitation to kiss him again?  
God, do I want to. But it wouldn’t be right, would it? I’d have to make my intentions clear first, that I don’t want to hook up and be done with it. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I’m hoping for more.  
Directness has always been a strength of mine. Why is it so hard to just come out with it?  
Our conversational banter remains lighthearted and fun through our meal. I didn’t notice exactly when, but his hands have stopped shaking completely. We wander into his kitchen to cork the bottle of wine, and pass it back and forth between us as we roast marshmallows over the tiny flame of his stove. My history of accidental fires is conveniently forgotten during this time.  
Wine is my favorite thing to drink when I’m not hiding from trauma. It leaves my entire body warm, and all I want to do is dance and sing and giggle about my most embarrassing memories.  
Despite our tipsiness we decide to play guitar hero, then Hot Hands, then Go Fish, all of which I lose. It’s too easy to lose to him, to watch him spin and celebrate his victories. I try to convince myself at one point that I’m throwing the game intentionally to see his bubbling joy, but I know that I’m really just terrible at games.  
Regardless, I’m fine with it. I am so fine with it.  
“Dom,” I say, slapping down my cards.  
“Hm?” he returns smugly, pausing his celebratory wiggling.  
“You deserve the world.”  
His first reaction is to smile, before his expression is replaced with recollection and his jaw drops. “That reminds me. What did you mean by that text? When you were at that bar and you told me that I deserved better?”  
“I don’t know. I was drunk.”  
“Exactly. What was the brutally honest sentiment behind that, hm?”  
“Nothing,” I say. “Just my insignificance. The feeling that you could do so much better than me.”  
He knocks on my head with his bruised knuckles, tilting his head one way then the other in a funny little display. “You must have a brick in there or summat. You dropped everything and came here just to help me out. Not to mention, drunk Marley trusts me with her life. That means a lot.”  
“Yeah. Well—”  
“Hey,” he says, silencing me with a firm pinch of my nose. “Stop. I love you.”  
Then he gets to his feet and wanders back into the kitchen, giving me no time to respond. I’m almost glad he leaves, because the choking stutter that escapes me isn’t flattering.  
It occurs to me then, no, it’s just that friendliness again.  
When he returns he smiles innocently at me, as if he hadn’t just given me a heart attack. He lies in my lap once more, and he and I drink wine and play Sticks until we both fall asleep.


	17. Napoleon Dynamite Dance Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The early morning sun trickles through the window shutters, tinting the room pale orange. The house is still cool from the hour, though I know later the thick summer heat will infiltrate the relaxed atmosphere.  
My mind is still fuzzy from the wine and the early hour. My cheek is pressed to Dom’s chest, the both of us clumsily wrapped in his jacket and sprawled on the living room floor with cards scattered around us. He smells exactly the way I remember him from Warped Tour, which seems so long ago now.  
I want to stretch toward him and kiss him awake, as though my life were a romantic drama, but I already have the next best thing. Never mind the squealing adolescent within me geeking over the close proximity, but I can’t remember a time in my life where I felt the restless part of my mind so at ease.  
In his sleep he pulls me closer, pressing me into his neck and nuzzling into my hair. I know I shouldn’t, but I use the adjustment to thumb the exposed skin above his collar, up around the back of his neck and into his hair. He sighs contentedly, tightening the jacket around us, and in the warmth and peace of the moment I fall back asleep.  
I wake up again later in the morning, alone on the floor and draped with Dom’s jacket. I sit up, dazed and happy, rubbing my eyes and slipping on the jacket properly. He appears a moment later in a T-shirt, chewing a granola bar and smiling casually at me.  
“G’morning. You like tea?”  
“Oh my god,” I groan. “You are so British.”  
“Aren’t I?” he says, Vogueing with his granola bar. “That’s why it’s so important to me that you like tea. Do you?”  
I stretch, unsticking a playing card from my lower back. “Yeah, but I’ve only had canned sweet tea. Like, from the gas station.”  
“That sounds awful. I meant real tea. I’ll make you a proper cup.”  
He disappears once more, and after several minutes he returns with two steaming mugs, one earth toned and the other baby blue. He sits cross legged before me and hands me a mug, tapping his delicately against it in cheers.  
“Go on,” he urges me. “Shouldn’t be too hot.”  
I sip, not breaking eye contact as I do. It’s warm and perfectly sweet, not too strong, with the right amount of milk. It warms my soul to its core, the comfort so thorough that I want to tackle him and reinitiate our tangled position from earlier. Cuddling and tea go together like cookies and milk.  
He’s watching me hopefully with shocking green eyes, waiting for my verdict. I’m inclined to deliver the most gratification I can. I want him to topple over in pride and kick his legs around and yank on the hem of his shirt.  
“It’s amazing,” I tell him. “The best thing ever.”  
He does as I had hoped, wiggling and beaming and laughing.  
I love him.  
Fuck. I hate myself. Why’d I have to admit it?  
I think my conflict must show on my face, because his laughter trickles off into a light cough.  
“Anyway, I’m looking forward to that milkshake,” he tells me, scooting over to lean against the coffee table so he can drape his legs across my lap.  
“What time?” I ask, tugging on his leg hair. He flinches and curses, but his legs remain where they are.  
“I dunno, seven? I’ve got an interview at four.”  
The rest of our morning is spent amidst our usual easy banter, over bowls of Cheerios and a second cup of tea that he uses as a vehicle to teach me his recipe.  
It’s the perfect time to admit my weakness. Breakfast is a perfectly lovely and romantic time. My confession rests on my lips but freezes there. I haven’t even considered all the possibilities. I’ve never been in love before, not really. How do I know I’m not just full of hormones?  
Maya texts me with a code blue, asking if I’m at home. I tell her I’m at Dom’s, and she responds with a BOLO 15.  
Dom and I finish our cereal, and of course he walks me out to Maya’s car and gives me an amicable hug and kiss goodbye, and a pleasant hello to her. She seems to regard him highly now, offering a dramatic display of greetings and pleasantries. Dom takes to these well, smiley and lovable as always.  
“Thanks again, Marley, for racing to my rescue last night.”  
I roll my eyes. “Please. I brought marshmallows and we played cards. It was a playdate, not salvation.”  
“See you later, yeah?”  
I grin, my cheeks undeniably pink by now. “Yeah.”  
He pats the roof of the car in his goodbye, and Maya and I drive off toward the freeway.  
“There’s a girl,” she says, as soon as we find the on ramp.  
“A girl?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.  
“Yeah. I went to this Slam Poetry thing.” Maya bites her lip in clear conflict. “I know I shouldn’t have been, but her poem took my breath away, and afterward I went to chat her up, and I really, really, super like her, Marley.”  
“But?” I press.  
“But she’s a virgin!” she says, gesturing so wildly that we ride the border of the lane for a moment.  
“So?”  
“So that’s a lot of pressure. I’ll have to be really good,” she says, clapping her hand back on the wheel. “Plus, she asked me on a date. She wants to, like, get to know each other before we sleep together. She wants a real relationship.”  
“So? That sounds like a good thing, considering how much you really, really, super like her.”  
“I’m not girlfriend material,” Maya dismisses.  
“Bullshit. You’re perfect girlfriend material.”  
“Fuck off, Marley.”  
“No, I’m not teasing. I mean it. You’ll go on a date and blow her away with your Napoleon Dynamite dance moves.”  
“How do you know I agreed to the date?”  
“Cause I didn’t meet you yesterday, nerd,” I say, clinging to my seatbelt as she abruptly takes an exit ramp.  
“Fuck, I’m predictable.” She gnaws her bottom lip even harder, coming to a harsh stop at a light. “What do I do?”  
“Be a gentleman. I know you’re not a complete horndog.”  
“Practice with me over coffee?” she asks.  
“Of course,” I say, and she whisks us immediately off to our favorite cafe.


	18. Wikihow That Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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Maya and I rehearse dating etiquette for nearly two hours. Clearly I’m unqualified to provide any material based on experience, so I Wikihow that shit.  
Since our unpleasantry with the boy who used us both, Maya and I indirectly swore off dating by encouraging our nighttime excursions, the evidence of which is always gone by morning. We saw the tail end of each other’s heartbreak from our shared ex-boyfriend, but we had never been a crutch for a beginning of the other’s relationship. It’s interesting, and new, and mortifying, particularly when she cuts herself off to ask what I had been doing at Dom’s.  
I shrug. “Hanging out.”  
“Marley. I can tell something’s off. Did you fuck?”  
“No, I did something much worse.”  
The premise of having a crush was unnerving until I had been able to justify my childish infatuation with his act of heroism. It was almost impossible to not like him for that, right? How could I blame myself for my feelings after being carried home and tucked into bed?  
“He knocked out two guys for me, Maya. With his bare hands,” I say, curling my fingers in emphasis. “He picked my messy, drunk ass up, and took me into his room. And you know what he did then?”  
“Will I have to kick his ass for it?”  
“No, of course not. He took off my makeup for me, Maya. Disinfected my scrapes, tied my hair up for me, laid fresh clothes out. He was going to take the couch to let me have his fucking bed.”  
She grimaces. “Okay. Major brownie points.”  
“What if it’s more than a crush?” I ask her, my chest tightening at my own question. “What if I’ve gotten in too deep?”  
“Oh, Marley,” she says, sighing gently in her soft, nonjudgmental way. “So quickly?”  
“Please, tell me I’m an idiot. Help me shake the feeling.”  
Maya shrugs one shoulder, sitting back in her chair. “I’ve never heard you talk like this. It’s not my place to help you rationalize your emotions away.”  
“Maya,” I whine.  
“I don’t know what to tell you, Marley. I totally get it. He’s funny and sweet and personable. Who wouldn’t fall for him?”  
“No, that’s the opposite of what I want to hear. Tell me it’s a terrible idea. He’s got tons of fangirls all over the world, he’s got tours and interviews and shows. He’s casual friends with the drummer from Blink. I can’t compete with that.”  
Maya holds her hands up innocently, shrugging again. “If the two of you wanted to make it work, you would. Does he feel the same?”  
“No, of course not. I’m not that gullible.”  
“Have you asked him?”  
“Well, no, but—”  
“Then you sound pretty gullible to me for making assumptions,” she concludes, finishing off her now cold matcha latte and standing.  
“You’re not helping. Like, at all.”  
“Because I’m not going to help you out of this one. It’s time for you to sit down and figure out what you want, even if it forces you to stop running.”  
I pout. “You’re just as flighty as me, you know, if not more.”  
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m dating someone now,” she says, extending her hand to link arms with me. “Your move, bitch.”


	19. Good Old Spray Cheese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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I had felt the urge to dress up, an inexplicable urge that I feel close to never. When Dom picks me up twenty minutes late I find that I’m grateful for the extra time, and my inclination to doll myself up was a good move. I hadn’t ever imagined what Dom might look like in a coordinated outfit that’s not his little black dress, but seeing him now heats my core.  
It’s a tiny little pleated skirt and fishnets, with a fine mesh shirt and full makeup. He looks lovely. I’m dying to touch him.  
We stop at the nearest In-N-Out, our moods elevated in the other’s company. His car is an automatic, so his free arm links with mine over the center console for the duration of the ride. We park in the lot of the adjacent grocery store since the Friday night pregamers hit up In-N-Out before beginning their weekend shenanigans. Their cars surround the restaurant, pumping hip hop songs from their speakers.  
The walk to the front doors is articulated with the murmuring chatter of groups sitting against their cars, sipping spiked sodas and letting tipsy giggles mingle with the rumble of excitement of Friday night.  
The line is obscene, but of course it passes in an instant with the pleasant distractions Dom provides. Our arms remain hooked together, even as we lean against the central planters while waiting for our food.  
“I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “I guess I would lose a toe before I’d give up a finger.”  
“Balance means that little to you?”  
“I play guitar for a living,” he says, grinning, “and my balance is shit even with all ten toes.”  
“Fair enough. Your turn.”  
He purses his lips, squinting at me in thought. “Would you rather give up sweets…or crisps?”  
“Crisps. They’re just a British mispronunciation.”  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Yeah. Chips. They’re called chips.”  
“How long are you going to deny your American ignorance?” he asks me sweetly, leaving an idle kiss on my knuckles.  
“As long as I live, like a true patriot.” I kiss his knuckles in return. “Would you rather be an Aussie or an American?”  
“Aussie, no doubt. The American accent is just too weird. Why so nasal?”  
“But our slang is kickass.”  
“Wrong. Why is ‘rubber’ slang for condom and not eraser? And who the fuck decided to put cheese in a can?”  
“A hero,” I say, nodding knowingly. “We don’t need antidepressants or a full night of sleep, just good old spray cheese.”  
“Oh,” he pouts sympathetically. “I hope you live to see thirty.”  
“You live here too, asshole.”  
Our number is called then, and both of us wordlessly refuse to untangle our arms as we gather our order. We’re bored of our game by the time we return to the car. We pop the trunk and dangle our legs out of the back as we eat, pausing only when two teenagers ask me to take photos of them with Yungblud. He’s very sweet and gentle with them, which of course softens me so much that I can only hug him and hold on once the teens leave.  
“You’re addicted, aren’t you?” he murmurs into my shoulder. “I should have warned you, my hugs are habit-forming.”  
My god, they are. We’ve broken the cuddle barrier now, and some subdued part of my mind is counting the moments until we can reunite that way. Did he think it was strange? Was it casual for him? Was it a message or a sign that I overlooked?  
“I’m down for another milkshake if you are,” I say, silencing my thoughts with more conversation.  
“What, you want to give me a sugar rush? I’ll be buzzing.”  
“We’ll light a dumpster on fire or something to compensate.” I extend my elbow toward him. “Down or not down?”  
He links his arm with mine once more, grinning wide with a French fry pinched between his teeth. “Sugar me.”  
We begin our needlessly long walk all over again, as the parking lot has emptied somewhat by now and we could have easily moved the car closer to the restaurant, but I think there’s an unspoken agreement that we like the quiet moments between the lot lamps where there’s only darkness and soft acceptance.  
In these moments, there’s courage I haven’t felt anywhere else. I think now might be the time to tell him my epiphany. Maya would be proud, and I want to make her proud as much as I want to ease my incessant cravings.  
“You know, Dom,” I begin, inhaling a tense breath, “I’ve had an amazing time since I met you. Like, really amazing.”  
He nods once in agreement. “Me, too.”  
“You should, you know, know that,” I say, pulling nervously at the pendant on my necklace. “I have a lot to thank you for. And, well, because of that—”  
Something clanks against Dom’s back, a sound so out of place that it startles us both. A crushed beer can bounces to the asphalt below. We turn, finding two young men perched against the railing of the cart return, barely visible in the dark parking lot. Among our dim surroundings I can distinguish only one or two discernible features: one of them is stick thin, and the other lacks a shirt.  
“Nice skirt,” says the thin one. “Faggot.”  
“Fuck off,” I say back instinctively.  
They laugh at my response.  
“You let her fight your battles for you?” the shirtless one asks. “Yeah, that makes sense.”  
“They’re drunk,” I tell Dom, pulling on his wrist.  
They hop off the cart return and approach, shoulders squared and chests puffed outward in some pathetic intimidation tactic.  
“Maybe I didn’t like their comment,” Dom says, detaching my wrist. “It’s the twenty-first fucking century.”  
He meets them halfway, both fists clenched. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the shirtless one doesn’t let him. He swings, hitting Dom square in the face and knocking him onto his back.  
I yelp in reaction, covering my mouth with my hands. The skinny one barks out a laugh at me, swinging his leg to kick Dom in the shoulder.  
The scene flips my stomach, blurring my vision in rage. I reach into my bag that hangs at my hip and reveal my silly bedazzled pepper spray, a Christmas gift from my mother that I hadn’t bothered to carry since the bar incident. The skinny one winds up for another kick, but I dive at him, shoving him backward with one hand and pepper spraying him with the other. The momentum topples him backwards, sending him crashing down to the asphalt. The shirtless one pays no mind to the downfall of his friend; he’s bent over Dom, laughing in his face, both hands braced on his knees for extra belittlement.  
Despite my occasional temper, I’ve never been more angry, more inclined to violence, in my life. I curl both arms around his exposed waist and yank him away from Dom and fling him to the ground. In his disorientation, I straddle him and free him of his belt, made useless by his too-tight jeans. I fold it once and wind up, whipping it across his face with such force that it leaves a deep welt. In any other case I would show restraint, maybe reference an action movie, but such a blatant violation has left me in a dazed fury.  
Before I know it I’ve left several welts, crisscrossing on his face, stopped only when the skinny one yanks me onto my back by my shoulders and pulls his friend to his feet. They bolt then, clumsily sprinting off into the darkness side by side, and I’m half inclined to chase them down, but Dom appears at my side on his knees, gripping my hand in his.  
“You alright?” he asks me, cupping his eye.  
“Fine,” I say. “God, Dom, I’m sorry that happened. Does it hurt?”  
“I’m fine,” he says.  
With delicate fingers I remove his hand from his face, finding a red patch on his cheek just beneath his lower lid.  
“Oh my god,” I say, coasting a thumb over it. “Did he hit your eye? Can you see?”  
“I’m fine,” he assures me again, resting his palm on my arm as I prod gently at the mark.  
“We should ice it,” I say to him, inspecting the rest of his face for injury.  
He lifts his elbow then, revealing a large scrape on his upper forearm from his spill on the ground. He chuckles lightly at this.  
“Twins,” he says.  
“Right,” I say, my heart still thundering from the altercation. “Do you have your first aid kit?”  
“It’s in my bathroom,” he admits. “I’m fine, really.”  
“Come on,” I tell him, pulling us both to our feet. “Let me fuss over you the way you did over me.”  
He smiles at this. “Alright. That sounds nice.”  
We walk together back to the car, and because of the proximity to my apartment we decide to go there. While I drive I wonder if it’s adequately clean, but I dismiss my insecurity. It’s more important to make sure he’s cared for, of course.  
He chirps out a compliment once he sees the interior of my apartment, loudly appreciating the details of my haphazard decorating. I seat him on my bed to gather up some first aid equipment, delivering an ice pack first for him to hold to his face. Then I disinfect his wound and bandage it, exactly as he’s done for me more than once.  
The lighting in my apartment has never been great; the place came with a shabby yellow lamp that flickers after five minutes of use and nothing else. Because of that I hung a cute neon sign on one wall the shape of a cloud, bright pink and surprisingly ambient. It turns his skin and teeth rosy as he quips various remarks of praise about this or that.  
“It’s nice to return the favor, finally,” I say, smoothing down the adhesive over his skin. “Feels like you’ve done an awful lot of taking care of me recently.”  
“Well, I like taking care of people,” he says innocently. “Especially you.”  
His arm remains in my hands as I needlessly trace his dark arm hair down to his wrist and back up again. His skin is warm and soft, his nails short and his hands adorned with heart tattoos and heavy rings.  
“Cause I’m a mess?” I ask, grazing my index finger over his fresh bandage.  
“Well, yeah,” he agrees. “That’s my favorite thing about you, though, that we can be a mess together. Like, one big mess.”  
“There’s solidarity in that,” I say. “A solidarity like I haven’t found anywhere else.”  
He nods slowly along with my words, catching my hand in his and tangling our fingers together. “I’ve been avoiding a question,” he says. “What made you leave my party so suddenly? It’s been on my mind.”  
“Nothing, really,” I say, entranced by his low, humming voice. “Just me, overthinking.”  
He holds my gaze despite the tension building in my throat.  
“Overthinking about what?” he asks.  
“You,” I say. “You, being way too cool for me.”  
“Don’t be silly,” he says, dragging the ice down and off his face.  
“No, I’m serious. You’re gentle, and funny, and talented. Progressive. Open minded. Wild and fun. And me,” I inhale slowly, “I’m a drunk.”  
“Marley, don’t do this. I’m not the best with words right now.” He reaches up to tuck away a loose strand of my hair, trailing his fingers tenderly down to my chin. “You’re sweet, y’know, and just brilliant, and such a fucking laugh. And beautiful.”  
“I don’t think I—”  
“Wrong,” he breathes, tilting my face upward. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. You’re all that and more.”  
“Wrong,” I return.  
“Wrong,” he echoes.  
His eyes fall half shut, and in a moment we’ve drawn each other in, mingling soft breaths as we share a long, silky kiss that steals my breath away.  
He pulls away slightly, separating us by a centimeter.  
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should have asked.”  
“Fuck it,” I return, crashing us together again, sloppy and ungraceful but deeply satisfying.  
His hand cups my jaw and pulls me closer, curling one arm around my waist and inching me into his lap. His touch is irresistible as it moves too slowly up and down my thigh, fingering the hem of my shirt. One of my hands finds its way to his hair, curling my fingers, toppling us both down onto the blankets.  
Reality escapes me. His tongue grazes my teeth, his fingers glide against my lower back. I sigh, straddling him, fisting one hand in the front of his shirt.  
He pinches the sides of my top, tugging upward ever so slightly.  
“Marley,” he whispers,“can I?”  
It registers then, I still haven’t told him how I feel. It seems so wrong to risk this miscommunication, like having a mismatched understanding of our tryst would ruin absolutely everything.  
All it would take is one short utterance.  
“Dom,” I say.  
Out with it, Marley, fucking out with it.  
Words fail me, of course.  
How do I tell him that I see him tonight, and many, many more nights in the future? How do I ask for an unambiguous romance? I want to scold him for his casual affection, for forcing me to ask if his constant outpour of love is platonic or not.  
This vulnerability is all new, and it silences me. I want him so badly it gnaws at me, but the possibility of rejection still hangs in the air. I would hate for one of my hookups to drop an ‘I love you’ bomb.  
It rests on my tongue. But I can’t say it.  
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, with the softest smile I’ve ever seen.  
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, trying not to choke on all this goddamn sentimentality. “You just mean so much to me, Dom.”  
“I understand,” he says, patting the tops of my thighs. “You mean the same to me.”  
He turns, easing me onto the bed, and curls us up again. Neither of us want to move after he does this, so we don’t, and we fall asleep as a tangled mass, happier than ever.


	20. Cats and Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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By morning Dom is sporting a large purple bruise on his cheek that he claims looks ‘fucking sick’.  
I serve us both cereal that we eat cross legged on my bed, my laptop open before us as we browse cartoons to watch with breakfast. I’m too nervous to bring up the events of last night, even though it could mean confirmation.  
Once again, our interaction had been ambiguous. I’d failed to tell him in explicit terms what I wanted, but he claimed to share my sentiment anyway. What had he understood about my hesitation?  
Now, every time he looks at me, nervousness strikes down all my confidence. I’d had the perfect chance, and I’d screwed it up. Nothing can be done now, in the harsh morning light, where I feel too vulnerable to even make eye contact. I’ll take him somewhere dim and heavy and do it properly.  
Our episode of CatDog ends, our bowls now empty. He stretches upward, popping his spine in the process.  
“Colson and I are crashing a bar later with some friends,” he tells me, pulling his skirt down when it rides up. “Bring Maya and meet us there, yeah?”  
A bar, perfect.  
Or maybe wildly inappropriate. My lack of experience appalls me.  
“Time?”  
“‘Round ten.”  
“Cool,” I say.  
“Cool,” he echoes, rising from the bed with his cereal bowl.  
He’s halfway to the box on the counter when his phone chimes.  
“Who’s it?” he asks me.  
I peek at his illuminated screen. “Kells?”  
“Oh, Colson. What’s he want?”  
I frown. “To meet you in the studio at one.”  
“Probably got summat for a new song,” he says. “Tell him I’ll be there. My passcode is 6759.”  
My frown deepens as I write the text. Why is there always something around the corner, just waiting to take him from me?  
He hunts around for his creepers, discarded over the side of the bed at some point last night. I stand to take his bowl as he comes for his phone.  
“Sorry to rush off,” he says with a cutesy pout. “The cartoon was well fun. Dogs and cats?”  
I follow him to the front door. “CatDog.”  
“Right. CatDog.” He grips me by the bicep as he leans in to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for the heroic rescue. I’m swooning.”  
I snort. “How could you not?”  
He lets himself out, pausing outside my door. “Guess this means we’re even?”  
“I guess we are.”  
“Right,” he agrees with a wink, starting down the hallway. “Love you, Marley.”  
Then he’s gone.


	21. A Walking Boner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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Maya comes over as soon as I call, panicked into a tizzy over her newest suitor and thankful for a distraction.  
She brings a pizza and a bottle of tequila with her, exploding through my door with a long outpour of complaints. We sit together on the floor, eating and working through every detail of her text interactions with the new girl, Layla.  
“I don’t know how to not flirt,” she tells me. “She wants to talk about books and movies and I’m struggling to be decent through it all. It’s like I’m on autopilot. How do I switch it off?”  
“Do you know how to have friends?” I ask her, rolling my eyes. “You and I talk about stuff.”  
“Yes, but I might have sex with this girl,” she says. “It’s different.”  
“Maybe this is good for you. It will force you to be a human being for once and not just a walking boner. She’s got feelings, you know.”  
“That’s the whole problem,” Maya whines, flopping backward against the bed.  
“Cut her loose, then. Don’t entertain her if you want different things.”  
She groans. “But I like her, Marley. More than I’ve liked anyone in forever.”  
“Ugh, gross.”  
“Shut up, Juliet,” she says, throwing her pizza crust at me. “Where’s Romeo?”  
The crust lands in my lap. I pick it up and chew on it distractedly.  
“In the studio, probably. He left a few hours ago.”  
“He was here? Did you fuck?”  
“No, Maya. Stop asking.”  
She squints distrustfully at me, crossing her legs beneath her. “What did happen?”  
“I turned him down,” I whisper, shrinking into a shameful ball at the memory. “What if he thinks it’s, like, a hookup?”  
“But in reality you’re being consumed by undying adoration and yearning?” She pauses. “God, ew.”  
“No matter what happens, I just can’t spit it out,” I say. “It was a whole thing. Some guys picked a fight with Dom and I chased them off. We were here, and the whole place was quiet and pink, and he kissed me and tried to undress me and I stopped him.”  
Maya’s eyebrows furrow. “Why on earth would you do that? Cause you’re too big a wuss to tell him how you feel?”  
“Are you saying that you could do it if you were me? That’s just not me. I can’t be vulnerable the way he can.” I steal a glance up at Maya, watching me disappointedly and selecting another slice of pizza. “Maya. I…have a big like for you.”  
This earns me an eyeroll. “You love me. Idiot.”  
“I do, I know I do. Why can’t I just say it?”  
“Because you’re a sucker with more feelings than you know what to do with,” she tells me, pointing at me with the bitten end of her slice. “I don’t know the guy too well, but he seems really, really sweet. He wouldn’t scrape you off for being honest.”  
I huff at her truthfulness. “What if I wreck it all?”  
“Probably better than not knowing, right?” She pauses, mid bite. “Plus if you’re having dates and sharing beds and he kisses you, he must know it’s more than a hookup.”  
“You said it was stupid to assume,” I say, eyeballing the nearby bottle of tequila but restraining the destructive urge. “Did you assume Layla wanted to sleep with you, or did she tell you?”  
“I didn’t assume shit,” she says, her mouth full. “She was all over me, holding my hand and shit.”  
“Dom and I hold hands,” I point out.  
“Then you’re even denser than I thought.”  
“Well, he’s just touchy-feely, you know. Maybe Layla is the same way.”  
“What, she pours her heart out into a poem and then just starts flirting with the first girl she sees with a lesbian necklace? Come on, Marley. She told me she was a virgin and everything.”  
I shrug. “Maybe that means back off. Maybe she’s a devout Christian.”  
“We’re going to see Rocky Horror tonight,” she tells me. “I don’t think so.”  
“Shit, does that mean you can’t come with me later? Dom invited me to a bar with what’s-his-face. Machine Gun Boy.”  
“Kelly, you boomer. Jesus fuck. What time is the thing?”  
“Ten. It’s somewhere in Hollywood.”  
“I’ll hang out for a minute, but I’m meeting Layla at the Nuart before midnight.”  
“Invite her to the bar. Please don’t let me go alone.”  
Maya purses her lips, squinting doubtfully at me. “You’re buying all my drinks?”  
“All of them.”  
“And you’re sure you’re fine to go to a bar after what happened?”  
“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Please come.”  
“Fine. Let me text Layla the address.”


	22. Phony Tryhard Badasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The bar is kind of a nightclub, and kind of not. It’s classy everywhere it’s not trashy and vice versa. Half the crowd wears cocktail dresses and collared shirts, while the other half wears DIY cutoffs and muscle shirts. I’ve never been to any bar like it.  
Maya and I occupy a standing table off to the side, sipping our usuals, deflecting the combined flirtatious forces of six guys in the first twenty minutes, four for Maya and two for me.  
“If I were straight, I would never sleep,” she muses, swirling her martini in her glass. “That last guy was fine.”  
“Are you kidding? He looked like a shoe.”  
“Yeah, a Cole Haan shoe.”  
“Gross. Where’s Layla?”  
“On her way. Why, you’re just dying to interrogate her?”  
I shrug innocently, lipping the rim of my glass. “I just want to know what she’s about, that’s all.”  
Maya sighs dreamily, like a lovestruck movie character. “She’s artsy and fun. A free spirit.”  
I raise my eyebrows at the description. “Sounds like a biochemist’s dream.”  
“What? I can be creative.” She stretches her neck in search of something at the bar. “Where’s Blud Boy?”  
“Why?” I say, my heart rate spiking. “Do you see him? Do I look okay?”  
“Oh my god, Marls, chill.” She steals a suspicious look my way. “Why? Are you planning something?”  
“I want to tell him,” I say, tapping nervously on the sides of my glass. “I thought maybe I’d have more confidence here.”  
“I wouldn't go dropping something heavy on him with a drink in your hand. It discredits you.”  
“Well, maybe it’s a good backup plan if I get rejected. Then we can disregard the whole thing, pretend it never happened.” I take a long sip of my watered down mint julep. “Being a drunk comes with the advantage of less scrutiny, at least.”  
“We’ll have to face reality someday, Marley,” she tells me soberly. “I know we have fun, but I want to be good for you and your life. I love you.”  
“Shut up.”  
“No, I won’t. Face your fear of intimacy. I love you.”  
A creeping feeling trickles down my spine at the premise of returning these words. Maya and I do very much love each other, but would we be the phony tryhard badasses we are if we said it all the time?  
“I get that your household growing up wasn’t too friendly,” she says, “but you’re an adult now. I promise there’s nothing scary on the dealing end of an ‘I love you’.”  
“I disagree.” I swallow hard. “But, I do, you know, love you. A lot.”  
“Was that so hard?” she asks, idly scrolling the text messages between her and Layla. “She just pulled up. Be nice.”  
“I’ll be nice,” I say, and neither of us speak until a girl comes through the front door.  
Maya grabs my arm, frantic. “That’s her. Be cool.”  
“I’m cool,” I say, squinting at the new girl. She seems like Maya’s type, lavender tipped hair and black lipstick, and stunning of course. Maya’s nails dig into my skin, tightening as she finds and approaches us.  
“Hey,” she says to Maya, and they hug.  
“Hi. How are you?”  
“Good,” she says, extending a hand to me. “I’m Layla.”  
“A pleasure,” I say. “Marley.”  
“You want a drink?” Maya asks her, leading her immediately off to the bar without waiting for an answer.  
I wait, knowing she doesn’t want me to begin my questions at least until Layla has access to alcohol. They disappear among the crowd, shorter than all the girls around them in heels. I wait, tapping my fingers against the table, when a sudden commotion draws away my attention. The lanky, pierced blonde from the party climbs up on the table with a drink in hand. A moment after him comes Dom, his hair exploded into its usual disaster, and as soon as a song begins to play over the speakers they hook their arms around each other.  
I straighten a little at the sight of them, joyous and laughing, hoping Dom sees me among the masses. He starts to sing then, barely loud enough to be heard above the speakers, in a bouncy duet with who I now understand to be Machine Gun Kelly. They dance and jump, drinks in hand, and the crowd matches their vivacious energy until the end of the song. They help one another down, off the tables, and without thinking I abandon my table to go find him, Maya and her date forgotten.  
I weave between the nightclubbers, clutching my glass, anxiously anticipating the impending conversation. It should be easier than this. I want to be free of these nervous jitters.  
I arrive at the back corner of the bar, pausing beside the table Dom had danced on a moment ago. After several thorough scans of the crowd, I spot Machine Gun Kelly, chatting enthusiastically with a group, but Dom is not among them. I wander a bit further and stop outside the bathroom.  
A curvy blonde girl appears behind me, excusing herself politely, and I duck out of her way so she can enter the bathroom. As she passes, she wipes her cherry red lipstick off on the back of her hand and smooths her hair down.  
Then, she goes into the men’s room without breaking stride. As the door opens and closes, I hear Dom’s voice from inside, calling a greeting to her.  
My chest clenches as several assumptions bombard me. I begin to go through them one by one, wondering if she made a mistake, if she’s had too much to drink, if she’s selling weed in there, if she’s a drag queen.  
I spend a few minutes pacing outside, wondering how to put my mind at ease. Then, without any thought at all, I barge into the men’s bathroom, seeing no one at first, until I see two pairs of legs in the stall, one standing and one kneeling. Hot jealousy rises in my throat as I beeline all the way to the far side, and push open the stall door with no consideration for consequences.  
Dom is there, his eyes closed, his head back, his hand rested atop the head of the blonde girl, who is knelt before him. They both startle and scramble to orient themselves. The girl adjusts her dress and fixes her hair. Dom rushes to yank his shirt down to cover himself.  
“Marley,” he sputters. “What are you—”  
My words catch in my throat, silencing me. Tears begin to brim, lining my eyelids and threatening to overflow, but I can’t blink them away faster than they come.  
So I swallow back my shock and barely manage to say, “Wrong bathroom.”  
I slam the door on my way out.


	23. Penis Hop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

I can’t leave the bar quickly enough to avoid Maya and Layla. They spot me ducking through the crowd, hurriedly calling as I walk one of the Ubers that swarms LA hotspots on weekends. They intercept me at the front door, stopping me in my tracks.  
By now my makeup is everywhere, my vision blurry with runny eyeliner and tears. Maya takes my face into her hands and blots the black smudges away.  
“What happened? Did you tell him?”  
“No,” I say. “He’s with someone. A girl.”  
“Oh, Marley,” Maya sighs, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be,” I tell her, dragging her hands away. “This is my fault.”  
Maya frowns. “Let’s go home, hm?”  
“No,” I retort. “No, please go to Rocky tonight. Please.”  
“But I—”  
“Please,” I repeat, gripping her wrist. “I’d hate myself to disrupt your date.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“Positive,” I tell her. “My Uber is meeting me at the corner.”  
“Okay. Text me when you’re home.”  
I nod once, shooting a shameful apology Layla’s way for interrupting her night. She dismisses me with a string of friendly reassurances, and after this they allow me to rush out of the bar and into the parking lot.  
I stop at the corner at the end of the block, pacing back and forth and trying to calm down some, maybe rationalize what I saw, but the recollection hurts. The image is burnt into my mind, almost as much as the knowledge that I might have been able to prevent it had I given into temptation last night.  
This must be a sign that hookup culture is the only flirtation with intimacy I’m ever meant to have. I have Maya, she knows me better than anyone, and I can just penis-hop until the day I die and entrust my emotional needs to her.  
It’s what I’ve been doing for a long time, seemingly by a natural inclination. I shouldn’t have tried to swim upstream.  
My Uber arrives then, and thankfully my driver is dead silent. No sounds disrupt the quiet ride save for the muted noises of Saturday night in Los Angeles, at least until my phone begins to vibrate.  
It’s Dom.  
I decline the call in a panic.  
Then, of course, he calls again.  
After the second rejected call, my phone lights up with messages from him. 

-Were you crying?  
-You ok?  
-Where r you?  
-Did you leave the bar?  
-You ok?

These I ignore as well.  
Then, several minutes later, a text from Maya. 

-Blud boy’s worried. Jsyk.  
-Like, really worried.  
-Jsyk. 

I mute her also.  
Once back in my apartment, I send a courtesy text to Maya and shut my phone off completely. I attempt to write a few scripts, but my mind is far too distracted to create anything of quality.  
Eventually I find myself on the floor of my shower, clutching the neck of Maya’s bottle of tequila in one hand and noncommittally scrubbing my face with the other.  
There’s not much to think about in here besides the thing I’m trying to avoid. He looked like he was having the blowjob of his life before I barged in.  
Maybe I should have responded to his texts, so at least I could play it off like I didn’t care. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the bar at all. My reaction would discredit me if I were to deny that it was more than embarrassment that I felt.  
On top of it all, it still hurts.  
Jealousy has never been a problem for me, ever.  
I don’t know how to handle the sharp ache that comes with my thoughts. There’s no denying how big of an idiot I am now.  
I had the chance last night, ready and waiting, and I did nothing.  
Though if Dom had any feelings toward me, I doubt he would have failed to tell me. Maybe my hesitation saved me from a harsh rejection; finding him in that stall was only a confirmation of a narrowly avoided disaster.  
The tequila soothes my mind after a while, thankfully silencing all my pointless speculation. When I knock out that night it’s with the dull ache of lost love, and a firm belief that I should avoid any future charming British rockstars that invite me onto their tour bus.


	24. Squishy and Vulnerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

The following few days are speckled with concerned messages from Maya and Dom, most of which are met with silence or indifference.  
I use the quiet to finish the work I’ve been putting off, though everything I send off is crap, my prose laced with slight drunkenness. The scripts I write sober come out a touch too vulnerable and way too transparent, so I always keep the tequila nearby. I’ll have to buy Maya a new bottle.  
My mind often wanders off to her and Layla, how things are going between them, but I can’t bring myself to ask, and she considerately doesn’t offer any information. Maya always knows when I’m particularly fragile and is cautious to avoid breaking me.  
Finally, after four days of moping, I ask Maya to meet me at our favorite barcade on Sunset, which she agrees to immediately. She seems relieved to see me and tackles me in a hug when we find each other inside.  
“I already bought tokens,” she tells me, shoving a few rolled coins into my front pocket. “Have you eaten?”  
“Yes, I’m fine,” I tell her, brushing her hair back and out of her face. “How about you?”  
“Yeah, Layla and I went out earlier,” she says, hesitating over Layla’s name.  
“So, are you official yet?”  
“Well,” she draws a breath, “I’m not sure if…”  
“You can tell me. I’m fine.”  
“Well, yes, we are.” The grin breaks out, despite Maya’s reluctance. “I asked her yesterday. She’s my girlfriend now.”  
I hug her again, squeezing her around her ribs. “That’s fucking awesome. I’m thrilled. Let’s drink to it.”  
“Just one,” she says, pulling me off toward the bar. “Something fruity.”  
I buy us each a drink, different than our usual and loaded with sugar. Both were bartender’s choice, a Maitai for Maya and a Sex on the Beach for me. We take our drinks around and hit all our favorite games, starting with Frogger, then following up with Space Invaders and DigDug.  
Despite our sobriety, we have an excellent time, cycling through all the arcade games and depleting our supply of tokens not once, not twice, but three times. All is well, and my recent heartbreak is entirely forgotten, until a rowdy group of Brits crowds the Speed Racer game beside us.  
Maya makes no attempt to be discrete as she takes me by the shoulders and steers me away from them, and the group clearly notices our avoidance, but Maya doesn’t seem to care.  
“I need another drink,” she says quickly, as if I didn’t notice her intentions.  
“I’m not stupid, Maya,” I say, stopping her in the aisle. “Like I told you, I’m fine.”  
“What do you mean?” she asks me innocently, interlocking our hands and continuing toward the bar. “I just wanted another drink.”  
She catches me rolling my eyes.  
“Alright,” she relents with a sigh. “I just didn’t want you thinking about him.”  
“Yes, I figured that out. I have a brain.” I glance back toward the innocent group of Brits, playing their game with a cheerful enthusiasm. “You made us look like assholes.”  
“I know,” she sighs once more. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Do you think any of them are single?”  
I chew my lip, examining the group for any signs of commitment, but prowling like I used to feels inexplicably wrong. I’d agreed to return to my old habits of hitting it and quitting it, but the psychological brakes are on and I can’t take them off.  
“Okay, fine, maybe not them,” she says, turning me by the shoulders to face the rest of the arcade. “Anyone here look fuckable?”  
I grimace at the thought. “Maya…”  
“I’m just trying to get your mind off it,” she says. “Remember how we used to help each other scope out hookups?”  
“I know,” I tell her. “I think I’m broken.”  
Maya frowns, rubbing her hands up and down my arms in a comforting gesture. “Did you really fall that hard, Marls?”  
“I guess so,” I say. “He occupies every corner of my mind.”  
Her frown deepens. “I still think he deserves to know that.”  
“I don’t,” I say firmly. “Maybe we can resume being friends after I learn to get over myself, but not before.”  
“So you’ve decided it’s better to never know?”  
“It’s clear how he feels about me, Maya, and I can’t blame him for it. I turned him down, remember?”  
She huffs at my conviction. “Have you explained why you bailed the other night?”  
“We haven’t really spoken,” I tell her, turning toward the nearest game and inserting a coin, averting my eyes so my confession doesn’t seem so exposed. “It hurts.”  
Maya lays her head on my back and wraps both arms around my waist. “I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine. Shut up.”  
“You’re not usually so squishy and vulnerable,” she says. “I don’t think you should so easily dismiss the person who caused it.”  
I ignore this comment and focus on my game, and I succeed until my phone buzzes in my back pocket.  
Maya and I both know that she’s one of two people who text me. Before I can stop her, she snatches up my phone and reads through my messages, curling over herself so I can’t disrupt her.  
“Maya,” I say, wrestling her for the phone. “Don’t you fucking dare.”  
“He’s inviting you over for a movie,” she says, scrolling through the rest of our conversation. “He says he wants to talk.”  
“Well, sucks. I’m busy.”  
“I’m gonna tell him you’re on your way.”  
“You’d better fucking not.”  
“You need closure,” she insists, and I grab the phone from her just in time.  
“I have closure,” I tell her, deleting the damning half-complete text message and pocketing my phone.  
“So he hooked up with someone,” she says. “How do you know it wasn’t just an attempt to get his mind off you? You’re not unfamiliar with that kind of compensation.”  
“Stop trying to rekindle my optimism,” I snap at her. “I was childish to think for a second it wasn’t going to be a disaster. I barely avoided the biggest humiliation of my life. Let it go.”  
“I think it’s reckless,” Maya says. “I think you’re too fearful for your own good.”  
“Whatever,” I say. “Just let me be.”  
“As much as I want to respect this boundary of yours, I think it’s detrimental. Please talk it out with him. If not for you, then do it for me.”  
“It’s bizarre how willingly you’d send me to my death, considering that you’ll have to be the one to resurrect me afterward.” I turn back toward the machine to start a new game. “I preferred you when you avoided the subject.”  
She nods once, crossing her arms. “Right. Well. Then I’ll avoid the subject of my conversation with him yesterday.”  
My hand tenses around the joystick. “Your what?”  
“Conversation. He messaged me on Instagram.” She purses her lips, shrugging in indifference. “But we’re not talking about him anymore, right?”  
“Right,” I say, gritting my teeth. “You didn’t out me, did you?”  
She shrugs again, rocking back and forth on her heels. “I dunno.”  
“Maya, I swear to god.”  
“Maybe he asked about you,” she says, overdoing the nonchalant shrugging at this point.  
“And? Did he say something you’re not telling me?”  
“We didn’t get into explicits,” she says, “but you’re neglecting him when he’s been nothing but good to you. That’s real shitty, Marls.”  
“Did you tell him to bury his sorrows in some rando’s mouth?”  
“Jesus Christ,” she says, recoiling. “Chill, okay? Be rational, like I’ve always known you to be.”  
“He really fucked me up, I guess,” I dismiss her. “With kindness, of all things.”  
“You owe him an apology,” Maya insists. “Be a half-decent friend, at least, or next time he comes to me looking for an explanation I might have to tell him the truth.”  
I pause, clapping my hand down over the buttons and throwing my game. “Is that a threat?”  
“I’m sorry, Marley, but it’s for your own good, I swear.”  
“Is it worth it?” I snap at her. “You’d sacrifice my trust because you think you know better?”  
“I know you’d self-destruct if I let you, and I won’t let you.” She reaches into my pocket and retrieves my phone once more, and this time I let her.  
I sigh.  
“I won’t go to his place,” I tell her. “Tell him to meet me at the AMC down the street.”  
“Good enough,” she says, and taps out a message faster than I’ve ever seen.  
“I can’t believe you ambushed me,” I tell her, moving a few machines down and starting another game.  
“I did it because I love you.”  
I send a sharp glance her way. “Right.”  
“Marley.”  
“Fine.” I swallow. “I love you, too.”  
“Yes, I know.” She bumps me with her hip, knocking me away from the machine. “Move. My turn.”


	25. So Many Hickeys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

Maya sends me off to the theater with a big hug and kiss on the cheek and one hell of a pep talk.  
This particular AMC, the one on Sunset, serves alcohol, so they ID me at the front and direct me to the bar afterward. I sit alone with a glass of whiskey, poking at the ice with a straw and desperately trying to calm myself.  
When Dom comes in my heart rate spikes and I’m half a step away from hyperventilating. The smile he offers me is tight and forced, and it hurts to receive it.  
He sits beside me at the bar, saying nothing for a long time. He still wears the bruise beneath his eye, faded with time.  
The anticipation just about swallows me whole. I have to break the silence.  
“What movie should we see?” I ask him.  
“I never wanted to watch a movie,” he says softly. “I wanted to talk.”  
I force back the raging anxiety with a few sips of alcohol. “Well, you said you wanted to see a movie.”  
“I can’t sit still now, Marley. I’m anxious. I’m worried. I’m hurt.” He fiddles with the strings on his hoodie, tying them over and over into knots. “You looked really upset the other day.”  
His tone makes me want to burst into tears and fall into his lap and beg forgiveness and an explanation.  
“I’m sorry I barged in,” I tell him, tension lacing my voice. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”  
“You didn’t,” he says. “I should have locked the door, at least.”  
I drink down the rest of the booze, struggling for confidence. “No, it was my fault.”  
“Why’d you leave?” he asks. “You've been quiet since it happened. Have I done something wrong?”  
“Of course not,” I say. “I’ve just been dealing with some stuff.”  
“Talk to me. Please.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Cause I’ve been thinking,” he says, pulling harder on the strings. “I didn’t know her, y’know.”  
“I figured.”  
“When I kissed you the night before, it wasn’t because I expected it to be a public bathroom hookup. You’re not a stranger, Marley.”  
“So why’d you do it?” I ask, contemplating another drink. “Kiss me, I mean.”  
I’m not sure if I’m ready for the answer.  
He draws a deep breath. “I don’t know, but I’m glad you stopped me.” He takes my hand, squeezing my knuckles one by one between the pads of his fingers. “You do mean a lot to me. A ton. Tell me you believe me.”  
I force a smile. “I believe you.”  
And now, I have my closure. Of course sleeping together would have been a mistake. Of course he’s glad I stopped him.  
Why risk it? Why not stay strictly platonic?  
My stomach twists at the loud, indigent thrashing in my chest.  
You’re in love with him, you idiot, that’s why.  
In my mind I have thrown myself into his arms, I have kissed him long and hard and told him in perfect eloquence how much I love him, how many dreams of mine he has occupied, the thoughts of him that consume my focus.  
I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole again, into his green eyes, into his voice and his accent and his smell.  
I can’t imagine going along like normal after he’s proved how easily he can break me, without even trying. How did he steal away my balance without my knowledge?  
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, rising, slapping a bill down on the bar to pay for my drink. “I’m sorry, Dom, I can’t.”  
His eyes widen in alarm. “What d’you mean?”  
“I just can’t,” I say, starting for the door, shaking his hand loose from mine. “I can't be friends. I can’t explain. I’m sorry.”  
“What?” he asks, trailing close behind me, following me out the door and down the stairs to the parking lot.  
“Please go,” I tell him, feeling more tears glaze my eyes, glossing my vision and dripping onto my cheeks. “Please don’t call. Don’t text. I’m so sorry.”  
I turn my back to him, pausing to call an Uber, but before I can confirm it he steals my phone and pockets it.  
“What did I do?” he asks. “Please, just tell me. What did I do to upset you?”  
“Nothing,” I say, turning away again, but he catches both my shoulders and holds me in place.  
“Tell me what hurts,” he says. “Let me apologize, try to fix it. Don’t ask me to leave now.”  
“I can’t be what you want,” I tell him. “I can’t see you without my mind running loose. It’s too hard, pretending this is just like any other friendship I’ve had. It’s too close.”  
His hands drop off my shoulders immediately. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll stop with all the touching. We don’t have to be like that if you don’t want to be. I’m sorry.”  
“Stop apologizing,” I demand, smearing tears away. “It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s my problem.”  
“What’s your problem?”  
“You did nothing. You were wonderful from the beginning. I took it too far, I misunderstood your affections, took them as more than they were. That’s my problem.”  
His voice softens even further. “Marley—”  
“Don’t say my name like that.”  
“Help me understand.”  
“I can’t. I’m not your responsibility. I have to go. Phone. Please.”  
Reluctantly, he slides my phone from his pocket and hands it to me, gripping it for a moment longer.  
“Please stay,” he says.  
“I can’t,” I say, making my way farther from the movie theater, speed walking into the parking lot and struggling to see my screen through the tears.  
He continues to follow me, staying close as we pass his car. “What do you mean, you misunderstood my affections? Please tell me.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Marley, please.”  
“I just can't.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because I fucking can’t, Dom.”  
He hurries to overtake me, stopping before me and halting me in my tracks. “Why the hell not?”  
“Maybe because it’s not fucking fair to you,” I snap at him, failing to keep my voice low. “Maybe if I told you how hard I’ve fallen for you, it would become your biggest burden. I wanted to spare you that.”  
The tension in his face melts away. “Sorry?”  
“Nothing,” I say, going around him and continuing toward the street. “Forget I opened my stupid mouth.”  
He doesn’t follow me this time. The parking lot is silenced from his stillness, and in the quiet I can hear his voice from behind.  
“Please come back.”  
The request comes out so silky and vulnerable that my stride breaks completely. I turn to look at him over my shoulder, framed by his car behind him, his arms outstretched, beckoning me back.  
The sight of it infuriates me.  
“I don’t want your goddamn pity,” I snap, stomping partway back toward him. “I knew I shouldn’t have fucking said anything. I knew you’d react this way.”  
“Marley.”  
“You’ve made it clear that you’re glad we were never anything beyond friendly. I fucking knew that, and I still opened my mouth.”  
He takes both my hands, pulling me closer amidst my rant. “Marley.”  
“Fucking what, Dom?”  
“Do you want to kiss me?”  
“Every second of every goddamn day,” I retort, “but the thought of you returning it out of pity, to placate me, is revolting.”  
He quirks a small smile. “Alright. Understood.”  
Then he cups my cheeks and leans in to kiss me.  
I grimace and pull away after the initial moment of bliss passes. “I said I don’t want your pity.”  
“Marley, you idiot,” he whispers, nuzzling our noses together. “I’m so in love with you.”  
And he kisses me again, holding me tenderly by the jaw, pressing his warm body to mine.  
I allow myself to be claimed by the moment, the blurry confusion, the wandering hands. He sighs a hot breath that sweeps over my cheeks and neck. His tongue grazes my lips and teeth. His hands slide up the back of my shirt, pressing against my bare skin.  
“Is this a dream?” I ask him, breaking away.  
He shakes his head breathlessly, tucking away my hair that the wind blows out of place. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”  
“Fear. Insecurity. Stupidity.” I tug his hood down so I can run my hands properly along his scalp. “Pick one.”  
He kisses me again, lifting me and twirling me as he does. We creep backwards, remaining intertwined, until we bump against the door of his car, pausing to unlock it and crawl inside.  
“I’ve been a disaster,” I admit, tracing his eyebrows with my fingernail. “Trying to figure out how to deal with myself.”  
“Yeah. Me, too,” he says, pulling me into his lap.  
“Well, you found your distraction in a handicap stall,” I remind him.  
“Right,” he says, with a huff of resolve.  
“Why?”  
“Cause of the night prior. I thought you’d told me off. Saying how much I meant to you— I assumed that was you trying to spare my feelings.”  
“I tried to tell you then,” I confess. “I couldn’t find the words.”  
“I resolved to be friends cause I thought it was what you wanted.” He pauses to bite his lip. “Meanwhile I wanted you so badly I could barely breathe.”  
“Why didn’t you say something?”  
“I tried,” he says, giving both my hips a gentle squeeze. “I thought maybe you’d see through me somehow, but you didn’t.”  
“Yeah, we’re both stupid,” I agree quietly, leaning to kiss him again.  
He reacts instantly, clasping both hands around the small of my back and pressing us together. I adjust to straddle him, gripping the bottom of his sweater and tugging it partway up. He lifts his arms and helps me remove it, and I discover him shirtless beneath.  
“Wow,” I breathe, coasting my hands down his chest and abdomen.  
“I’m blushing,” he returns, cupping a hand around the back of my neck and pulling us together once more.  
He shuffles beneath me, keeping us close as he twists and lays back against the seats, pinned down between my knees.  
He invites me down with him, beckoning to me with a swipe of his tongue over his lips. I have to restrain the urge to dive at him, to rip the rest of his clothes off and beg for relief.  
My wandering hand makes him shudder beneath me, gripping impatiently at my hips and thighs with firm fingers.  
His kiss grows hotter, his breathing more ragged, and I wonder how soon my self-control will falter.  
I hook my fingers into the front of his pants, grabbing his waistline, and catch his lower lip between my teeth. His eyes are on fire, his fingertips pressing so hard into my skin that it almost aches.  
Then, a tense exhale, followed by a timid smile.  
“I can’t help but think that this should be done right,” he says, laying his hand over mine. “Y’know?”  
My grip loosens on his pants. “Like how?”  
“Like somewhere private, and on a bed or summat.”  
“Wow,” I say, dipping down to nip at the side of his neck. “Spoken like a true modern gentleman.”  
He tilts his chin up to grant me better access to his throat. “What can I say? I believe in chivalry.”  
God, I want to give him so many hickeys.  
I start on one, making a small pink mark and darkening it gradually, but he stifles his noises and pulls me away by my cheeks.  
“Knock it off, I’m already tempted,” he says, laying a soft kiss on my lips. “Can I take you out or summat?”  
“If you let me buy you a milkshake,” I say. “I probably owe you a hundred for all the drama I’ve caused.”  
“Nah,” he says. “It’s my turn. It’ll be like a proper date.”  
“Tomorrow?”  
“Tomorrow sounds good.”


	26. Thoroughly Buttered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

We return to my apartment for reasons that are beyond me. He swears up and down it’s because he likes my decorating.  
The place is severely neglected from nearly a week of moping. The bed is a disaster and my clothing is strewn about, but he pays no mind at all. He struts in and gives a little twirl in the middle of the floor, flinging off his sweatshirt that he had replaced for the sake of the walk from the car, an insistence to which I had objected.  
“I’m really rethinking my decor,” he says. “I need a sign like that one.”  
I reach up to dust off my neon light. “I got it off Etsy.”  
“Tom thinks I’m an idiot,” he says, plopping onto my bed and fiddling with my bedside night light. “That’s cute. Etsy also?”  
“Etsy, yeah. Why’s Tom think you’re an idiot?”  
“For inviting you out and then meeting another girl in the bathroom. Proper bad move.” He reaches out for both my hands and squeezes my palms. “Can you forgive me?”  
“You’ve really got no reason to apologize,” I tell him, letting myself be pulled down onto his lap. “Well, not for that reason, anyway.”  
A frown comes to rest on his lips. “Have I got something else to apologize for?”  
“Yeah, fucker, you absolutely broke me. I had so much game before I met you.”  
He quirks an eyebrow. “Game?”  
“I don’t do crushes, you know. I did serial one night stands.” I pause, thinking back to what’s-his-face from Warped Tour. “The last time I made any real attempt to get some was the day I met you, and it flopped.”  
“You mean the guy who told you to steal my underpants?”  
“That’s him,” I say. “I spent all day buttering him up, with no reward.”  
“Well,” he says, with his usual wide grin, dragging his finger along my bra strap. “I’m thoroughly buttered.”  
As if on instinct, I dive forward to kiss him, to initiate the undressing, but it feels all wrong. I try to ignore it for a minute, try to drown out the insecurity with images of him naked, but I can’t ignore the twisted feeling.  
“Fuck,” I hiss, pulling away.  
“What?”  
“My body is rejecting this,” I tell him, scraping my hair back. “I’m not treating you like a hookup, okay?”  
“You’re not,” he says softly, running both hands along my thighs.  
“You’re special,” I continue. “Very special. All I’ve thought about recently is you. I started to write romance scripts because of you. You have been in my dreams. I have a mental list of all my favorite places that I would like to show you.”  
Both his arms wrap around me, pressing us together in tight reassurance. “You must be a hopeless romantic.”  
“Not for anyone but you,” I tell him. “I’ll make you dinner and put on your favorite movie, and I want you to ramble about the symbolism. Then I’ll give you a massage and ask about your wildest dreams and I’ll reciprocate with a heartfelt confession of my insecurities. And then we’ll sleep, and wake up, and for once I won’t be counting the minutes until I’m alone again.”  
He offers no words in return, only softening his smile and nuzzling his forehead into my shoulder. Then he releases me to start on our noodles.  
We’re halfway through “10 Things I Hate About You” when Dom lowers his empty bowl and stands up.  
“I’m restless,” he says. “Let’s do something.”  
“ADHD?”  
“It’s bugging me, man,” he says, and without any hesitation I follow him to the door, stomping into my shoes and starting toward the stairs.  
The street is well lit with street lamps, casting bubbles of light onto the sidewalk, between which Dom and I linger in the darkness and steal kisses. Without the immediate presence of sex I am not the best at physical contact, but this feels admittedly easy. There is effortless hand holding and cheek squishing and pocket invading. We jaywalk diagonally through an intersection and stop outside a hookah lounge, alive with people and clouded with smoke.  
“You smoke?” he asks.  
“Occasionally.”  
We continue down the street once more, the smell of tobacco following us to the end of the block.  
“What’s the best thing about being Yungblud?” I ask him.  
“The community,” he says immediately. “The fans. The people. I’d be lost without them.”  
“What would you be if you didn’t make it as a musician?”  
“Dead,” he tells me, and doesn’t explain.  
“Like…starving?”  
“Well, if I didn’t off myself first.” He grimaces, pulling me closer and hooking an arm around my neck.  
“Yeah, we were all a bit too emo for our own good,” I agree. “I developed my alcohol problem early. Thirteen.”  
“Thirteen?” he repeats thoughtfully. “That’s when I started smoking.”  
“Funny how corruption happens early.” I pause. “That’s also when I lost my virginity.”  
“Jesus. Really?”  
“Unfortunately so. It was a stupid act of rebellion.”  
“Think you and I have been carrying around a little extra damage,” he says. “Though nights like this one seem to mend the wounds.”  
“I find anywhere quiet and dark has that effect,” I say, nodding, crossing alongside him through another intersection.  
“Thirteen,” he says again softly, pensively. Then, after a long pause, “Let’s go cuddle.”  
And we do.


	27. In Perfect Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a comment!! Tell me your thoughts!!

[18+]

Studio apartments promise a complete lack of privacy that single renters are almost never made aware of.  
I prefer peace and quiet over the alternative, so the solitude of living alone never struck me as loneliness. It was here that I got my best work and thinking done, so the chaos that entertained me always took place outside my home.  
I am no longer alone, but there is no chaos. Dom and I had fallen asleep after a lasting conversation that dipped well into the early hours of the morning, skating the line between lighthearted chatting and soul crushing confessional. There was no judgment to be found between our words.  
The sun is not up yet when Dom shuffles just enough between the sheets to wake me. He twists and rises, slumped over himself, and makes his way to my refrigerator. The interior light floods the room briefly, leaving a gleaming glow outlining his bare torso and legs, his boxers bunching around one thigh.  
He shuts the door and turns, plunging us into darkness once more, and leans backward against my table as he twists the cap off a bottle of water and drinks. The moonlight from the window is just barely enough to illuminate him and his mostly exposed body. Despite my drowsiness I am wakeful enough to appreciate my view.  
I sit up in bed, still watching him, and in the low light his eyes focus on me.  
“Good morning,” he says with a smile, his voice low and gravelly.  
“Good morning,” I echo, almost in a whisper. “What time is it?”  
“I dunno, four?” He lowers his bottle and approaches the bed once more, dropping one knee to the blankets. “Sorry if I woke you.”  
“You look incredible,” I tell him, ignoring his apology.  
Another smile appears. “Thanks. I’d return the compliment but the fridge light blinded me.”  
“So you can’t see me?” I ask, getting up onto my knees, closing the minimal distance between us.  
A quizzical look crosses his face, and the next smile that comes is somewhere between mischievous and intrigued. “Not really.”  
I drag my index finger down his sternum, feeling the light, tickly hair along it. “But you can feel me.”  
“In perfect clarity.”  
My hand trails further down, taking a detour around his hips and waist. Then, I curl two digits beneath his elastic waistband and pull one side down toward his thigh.  
To my surprise, he catches my wrist in a gentle grip.  
“You’re not going to steal them, are you?”  
The joke catches me so off guard that my laugh is more of a bark.  
“You caught me,” I say, resisting more giggles.  
“Fine,” he says, and he helps the other side of his underwear down, then slides them all the way off.  
His broad shoulders block the moonlight from my eyes, so the initial shock misses me. I scrape my nails up his bare thigh, toward his length, but before I can reach it he grabs me and kisses me hard. His weight comes down on top of me, pinned down beneath his hips, his lips slotted between mine and seeking more heat and enthusiasm that I have no trouble providing. His mouth is cold from his midnight drink, and the temperature difference adds a sensational contrast between us.  
But, I decide, he is simply too beautiful to be lost to the darkness. So I twist us around, pressing Dom into the bed with a particularly firm kiss, and then skirt away from him when he dives for me once more.  
Before he can complain I switch on the neon light, washing the room in pink. The Pink Boy smiles appreciatively, laying back against his hands and allowing me a second to admire him, splayed fully naked on my bed.  
He’s waiting expectantly for my return, but the sight of him stops me in place. His hair, as usual, is everywhere, framing a sultry but soft face. Below that, his slender neck, defined chest muscles, pointed ribs, and a smooth stomach. The further down I go, the weaker my knees get. My eyes coast along his pelvis, his halfway-there erection, two posed and muscular legs lain casually among my sheets.  
I was right, he’s perfect.  
“People don't usually stare this long,” he says, half jokingly.  
“I can’t help it,” I tell him, fumbling with the bottom of my shirt and clumsily yanking it off, followed hastily by my shorts. “You’re just. Perfect.”  
His erection twitches slightly, standing up a little straighter. “Marley.”  
“Dom,” I return, and then we are together again, him sitting up to meet me as I straddle his lap.  
His hands come to rest on my hips, squeezing with pleading fingers as his kiss grows more demanding. He breathes out most of a compliment about the way I look topless, but his words are lost in my mouth. His hands trickle upwards, cupping my chest, sending a jolt through me that is potent enough to crash our hips together.  
I close my hands around his jaw, tilting his face toward the ceiling and biting down on the side of his neck. The same desire from earlier strikes me again, twice as hard, and soon I am leaving bruise after bruise. He reacts each time, his nails scraping down my back, low groans rumbling in his throat. He pleads for something incoherent, pressing us flush together so he can grind his hips against mine.  
“Marley,” he gasps breathlessly, followed by a long string of curse words.  
Our lips come together once more, sloppy and dazed, and slowly I slip off his lap and sink into a kneel before him.  
His gaze, as intense and purposeful as it is, never leaves my face. From the nightstand I reveal a wrapped condom and hold it up, pinched between my fingers, to which he nods with glassy approval. As I roll it on, he swipes his thumbs along my cheekbones, emanating a doughy softness that makes my lip quiver. I pretend not to notice for fear of getting too emotional.  
Then, I lay my palms against his kneecaps and kiss his inner thigh, watching the realization cross his face as I lean forward, eye contact unwavering. His hands glide up the back of my neck, gathering up my hair into a bundle and holding it away from my face. Then, I take him into my mouth, satisfied with the consequent shudder of his legs.  
His head tips backward, his hand tightening in my hair. I sense some effort to bite back the sounds that gather in his chest, rumbling beneath his sternum as I do my best to break his restraint. His legs quiver under my hands as he rolls up onto the balls of his feet, flexing against the back of my throat. A heavy breath escapes him as I continue my pace, his free hand switching between a fist in the sheets and the tenderest palm against my cheek.  
His next exhale carries my name from his lips, his pelvis inching up toward my mouth, his fingers scraping against my scalp with every forward motion. A sharp, sudden inhale breaks my focus, and with soft, warm hands he cups my chin and pulls me up and forward, against his chest.  
“Hey,” he breathes. “I love you.”  
“As I love you,” I tell him, straddling him one more.  
He lifts his face toward mine, his lips popped slightly open in the lull of the moment. He leans forward to leave a trail of soft kisses along my mouth and chest, pausing to tease me with featherlight teeth and tongue. I grip at his shoulders as he does, pressing him closer as my core tightens with want.  
We thread our hands together between us, holding tightly as we align, sinking partway together.  
I pause as his heat registers, stopping in place and allowing a slow groan to seep from my lungs. His hands come down on my thighs, holding me still as he flexes upward with a single fluid thrust. Both of us gasp in reaction, the sudden warmth flooding our minds with blinding pleasure.  
I cup his chin in one hand and sweep his hair back with the other, clearing his face so I can watch his every reaction. I move against him, establishing a slow, even pace that earns me a low whimper from the back of his throat. His eyes fall shut briefly, and he hitches up against me and furrows his brows.  
“Don’t tease me,” he murmurs, inching forward to swipe his tongue across my lips.  
“I like to watch you squirm.”  
A mischievous smile appears on his lips at this, and despite the greedy noises he makes he muffles them against my neck, biting and sucking on my skin until I feel bruises begin to rise. My fingers curl into his hair, my knuckles pressed tight against his scalp, earning a deep, barely-restrained growl from behind his teeth.  
“Don’t tease,” he repeats, pulling against my grip to nip at my collar bone.  
“Make me,” I say.  
He freezes in place, his incisors grazing the base of my neck.  
“Sorry?” he says.  
“You heard me,” I say, pulling his head back to make eye contact.  
A moment of crazed tension floats between us, his vibrant oceanic eyes sheathed in flames of want. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple flowing rhythmically as he does.  
“That’s what you want?” he asks, his voice deep and heavy with sex.  
I inch forward, close to his ear.  
“Break the legs off my bed,” I tell him.  
There is no hesitation. We move fluidly together, swapping our position, and as I am pressed beneath his hips a new, desperate fire explodes in the base of my abdomen. The moment of reorientation is intense and foggy, the haze broken only when he starts to move against me with a rough and ragged rhythm.  
The bed cries beneath us, creaking and scraping the floor, but my neighbors don’t even cross my mind in the middle of the high. All I can do is watch him, feeling my own body climb and tighten, sucking short breaths that articulate my profanities and praise.  
One hand wraps around the back of my knee, hiking my leg higher and curling it around his waist, and there we find the perfect synchronization that makes us both gasp. He grits his teeth, bracing his weight on his forearm, his necklaces caressing my sternum as he moves within me. The edges of his silhouette are flushed pink from the light behind him, and despite my lagging mind I know that I have never wanted anyone more.  
His hand leaves my leg then, reaching down between us. His thumb grazes against me with featherlight delicacy, igniting the rest of my nerves white hot. It’s intense enough to make me whine, a long, mewling sound that he meets with a few muttered curses. His thumb, after a short delay, follows the rhythm of his hips, flooding my every extremity with a tightness that leaves me dizzy.  
“Fuck,” I breathe, fighting to focus so I don’t dissolve into the pleasure.  
“Come for me, Marley.”  
The sound of his voice, breathy, gentle but desperate, curling around my name, knocks me over the edge. I toss my head back, allowing the incoherent cries to flow, gripping him around his upper back and letting myself be claimed by the release.  
A long sigh of relief follows my orgasm, alongside a head-to-toe loosening. I’m present enough to register the sounds rising from his chest, the abrupt quickening of his hips pounding against mine. His jaw unclenches, and his golden voice carries a full, needy moan. He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling our stomachs together as he comes with several short, rough pulses. He muffles himself, clasping our mouths together in a sloppy kiss, allowing our breaths to mingle and uncoordinated lips to drag.  
He exhales, deepening our kiss for a fleeting moment before he flops down on top of me, breathing hard into my ear.  
“You okay?” I ask him.  
“Holy fuck.”  
We allow a few silent minutes to pass, crushed together on top of the sheets, leaving absentminded kisses along exposed skin as we regain our bearings. Our breaths are cool as they coast over droplets of sweat, and after the moment of rest he pinches my chin, plants a firm kiss on my lips, and rolls onto his back.  
He sits up, his wide shoulders shielding my eyes from the pink light, as he removes and ties off the condom. He swipes his hands through his hair, flattening it backward.  
“Marley.”  
“Dom.”  
“Holy fuck.”  
“Well said.”  
He turns on the bed, forgoing the search for his underwear, and lies beside me again, slipping one arm around my neck and pulling me close against him.  
“It’s never been like that,” I tell him. “Not even close, actually.”  
“Really?” he murmurs. “I’m sorry you’ve had so much bad sex.”  
I nod along with his words. “So am I.”  
He tucks my hair behind my ear, dragging his thumb down my cheek as he watches me with sentimental tenderness.  
“I’m glad we waited,” he says. “Fuck, that was intense.”  
“You’re telling me. I think I saw Jesus.”  
He laughs his usual laugh, but adjusted to the quiet apartment. He tucks some more of my hair away and comments lightly about its disastrous state, and then lays a kiss on my forehead. We fall silent after this, quieted by the gentle touch of the other, and eventually we return to our sleep, more exhausted than before.


	28. The Dora Movie

“What do you want?” Dom asks me, gazing up at the stars with a whimsy that makes me jealous. The hood of his car is still warm from our drive here, the crackling engine adding a satisfying layer of white noise. “From life, I mean.”  
“That’s a loaded question. Everything, I guess,” I tell him, propping myself up onto my forearm so I can lean over him. He holds out his burning cigarette, pinched between two fingers, and holds it still as I take my drag. “Why are we sharing this cigarette when we have a whole pack?”  
“It’s kinda like an indirect kiss, innit?” he says. “I feel the need to make up for lost time.”  
“What lost time?” I say, tracing the seam of his waistline with my fingernail. “If anything, this was rushed.”  
“I dunno, every time we stopped talking it felt like a million years.” He shrugs, sticking the cigarette between his lips so he can fold his hands beneath his head. “Dunno what it is, Marley, but I felt a connection right quick.”  
“You stop,” I scold him, swiping the cigarette before it can dribble ash onto his face. “You’re cheesy.”  
“I’m serious,” he says. “I always said my fans— the Black Hearts Club, they’re called.”  
“I know.”  
“They helped me find my place in the world,” he continues. “Maybe you weren’t a fan, but in a way they did lead me to you, didn’t they?”  
“You mean because of Warped Tour?” I ask.   
“Yeah. Never thought I could be even more sentimental about Warped, but here I am, reminiscing about the time you tackled me while trying to make off with my underwear.”  
I snort. “Have I apologized for that yet?”  
He turns his head toward me, rolling partially onto his side and gracing me with that little half smile he does, the one that makes me wobbly all over. “I love you. You know that?”  
“I know that,” I say, inching closer to him so I can reach out and brush away his unruly hair. “Thanks for sticking around, Dominic.”  
His face scrunches. “Dominic? I’m Mr. Blud, remember?”  
“So you’re the one who’s been texting me dirty pics?”  
He smirks. “All me, baby. You like?”  
I take the last drag from the cigarette and put it out on the windshield, propping the butt against the wipers. “Yeah, I’m getting them framed.”  
He tosses his head back and laughs, undoing my meticulous effort of tucking his hair into place. He snatches me by the waist and yanks me against him, crashing our chests together and squeezing me until my spine pops. I nestle my head into his neck and breathe him in, wondering if this is how love is supposed to be or if I've just won the lottery.   
“So what do you want?” he repeats, leaving kisses along the side of my face. “Really, Marley, just in case I can give it to you.”  
“I want what you have,” I tell him. “I want to find where I belong. I think I’ll write a book, really pour my heart out, and try to attract readers who get me. You know?”  
He nods once, nuzzling his nose against my temple. “I know very, very well.”  
“You think I’ll find it?”  
“I know you’ll find it.”  
He cups my face then, tilting my head up to meet my gaze. When he kisses me it feels like an agreement, or maybe a promise, that he’s had some premonition where all my wildest dreams come true. I hope he’s beside me when they do, and if they don’t I hope that whatever god exists is merciful enough to let me keep him anyway.   
The kiss goes on. Fingers tangle with hair, legs mingle and intertwine, chests rise and fall. Everything is at ease, and all seems possible. I murmur out that I love him, and he smiles against my lips and pulls me closer.   
Then, a wad of paper hits me in the cheek. We separate, finding ourselves abruptly accompanied by Maya and Layla, standing almost on top of each other and gripping each other by the hips.   
“You’re making out in a movie theater parking lot,” Maya says scoldingly. “I expected this behavior from Marley, but I thought you were classier than her, Dom.”  
“Why on Earth would you think that?” he asks.   
Layla laughs, poking Maya in the cheek.   
Maya fights off her grin. “You lovebirds ready?”  
“Ready Freddie,” Dom says, sliding off the hood and bowing to me, offering up his hand. “My liege.”  
“Thank you, sire,” I say, and allow him to help me off the car.   
“What are we seeing?” Layla asks.   
“The Dora Movie,” Dom says, holding up four tickets to Dora and the Lost City of Gold.   
Maya groans, throwing her head backward in a dramatic display of protest. “You’re fucking kidding me.”  
“Oh, you two actually wanted to watch a movie?” I ask, plucking two tickets from the bunch and waving them in Maya’s face. “Dom and I were just going to make out. We figured you two would do the same.”  
Maya narrows her eyes at me, pointedly ignoring the tickets before her.   
“You can probably exchange them,” Dom says casually, shrugging. “You know, for a movie you actually want to see, and not make out in the theater. Or you could come watch Dora with us and get handsy.”  
Maya huffs and snatches the tickets from me. “Fine. Let’s just go.”  
All but Maya laugh until we enter the theater.


End file.
